


Monstrous

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, dragon!Calanthe, monsterhunters!au, same universe different canon, siren!Eist, some more of that pesky meddling destiny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:21:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 161,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26214031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: The witchers are all gone now, but the monsters have survived. Now, monster hunters are generally the half-human children of monsters themselves.As the son of a siren and the daughter of a dragon respectively, Eist and Calanthe have spent years slaying monsters across the Continent. As long-time colleagues (and occasional lovers) they agree to hunt a creature destroying a small village in the far north. And in doing so, they set into motion a prophecy that must be fulfilled--changing not only their futures, but their understanding of themselves and each other.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 102
Kudos: 93





	1. Part One: The Siren's Son

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE NOTE: This work is not fully tagged (yet) because I am not entirely sure of "levels", in a way. This story will show violence (no unnecessarily gory/violent stuff, but violence will happen), deal with childhood trauma, and generally be a bit darker. And of course, there will be smut.  
> If you have any concerns, you're more than welcome to contact me on tumblr (@marvellouslymadmim) and I can give you further details to help you decide if this is a story for you. As those moments come along, I will most likely update the tags/archive warnings *if* I deem the actual content is worthy of it. I will also post individual warnings on specific chapters.
> 
> Now, if you're still with me, let us begin.

**The North Shore, An Skellig.**

He could feel the odd humming in the air as Mother stood by the sea. She tilted her face to the sky, long black locks curling and wisping in the breeze, as if its only purpose was to show the world how magical she was.

He watched, eyes as wide as the sea and just as blue. Mother turned to him, smiling in the kind of way that made him sad.

She didn’t speak, and that made him feel scared. His tummy swished and twirled, like a whirlpool. But that wasn’t from Mother’s magic. She never did mean things like that. She always just smiled and sang and made the world feel safe, even if it felt a little bluer when she was around.

She put her hands on his cheeks—they were cold and felt rough from the gritty sand on them, but he was too afraid to pull away. She kissed his forehead.

Then she turned and walked straight into the sea.

He stayed there, filled with a sudden terror. It was so wide—all the way to the edge of the world. When would she stop? When would she turn around? When would she come back?

He was still sitting there, when his sister found him, her own eyes wide with fear.

“Eist!” Sibba held the oil lamp in front of his face, making him recoil at the sudden brightness amongst the dark. “Eist, where is Mother?”

He merely looked back to the sea.


	2. In All Its Chaotic Glory

**Thirty-Seven Years Later.**

**Nastrog, Verden.**

He knew she was here, long before he actually entered the tavern. Long before he saw the heavy, double-headed ax on the scarred oaken table, before he heard the soft, quick _thwack_ of a blade upon the bullseye at the back of the room and the cheers of surprised delight in response, before he moved through the crowd to see a dark head of braids coiled in an intricate pattern, before she turned and fixed him with dancing dark eyes and a smile that had burned entire cities.

You could always feel dragons, long before you saw them. In his decades hunting monsters, Eist Tuirseach had learned that most certainly. As a child of a monster himself, he’d always been particularly sensitive to their auras—it was what made him a good monster hunter, truth be told—but he’d learned to become particularly keen to the energy of dragons.

It was a warm, almost-welcoming glow that seemed to greet him from down the darkened street. The added thickness to the air, when he first entered the tavern. The feeling of something large and deadly, coiled just in the shadows, the held breath just before it struck, in all its chaotic glory.

And chaotic and glorious she was.

“Hullo, Hound.” She grinned, all teeth and devilish delight. “I see they haven’t burned you at the stake yet.”

“Not for lack of trying,” he assured her, unable to stop his own grin.

The room was already fully-charmed (another effect of her dragon’s blood, the ability to practically hypnotize people with her charm, when she chose to use it), he could tell by the warm, bubbly feeling gently bumping against his skin. It wouldn’t work unless he allowed it to—but then again, he’d long fallen to it, countless times.

Here, in the tavern which required a certain level of anonymity, in a world where hunters were better off with simple titles rather than names, she was the Lioness. But he was one of the privileged few who knew her name— _Calanthe_ , the mere thought of it sending a warm ripple through his chest.

“A beer for the sea hound of Skellige!” She called out, craning her neck to make eye contact with the serving girl behind the bar, who blushed and hurried to fulfill her request. Calanthe watched her go with a warmly-amused expression, lazy and feline, as if contemplating actually pursuing the young woman’s obvious attraction to her.

She wouldn’t, Eist knew. Not if he was here. They didn’t have rules, per se, but it was a rather predictable formula.

He quite liked the predictability of it, truth be told.

Calanthe turned back to him with an equally warm smile. “Starting a hunt, or finishing one?”

“Finishing.” She looked pleased at the answer. He took a moment to rather pointedly look down the length of her body, “You seem a little…unbloodied. Starting a hunt, I presume?”

“If there’s one worth starting.” She gave a little shrug, drawing her gaze over the room with a slight curl of her lip.

True to her nature, she didn’t take on a hunt if there wasn’t enough gold on the table.

Calanthe wasn’t _actually_ a dragon. She was an ordinary woman, if anyone could look at that face and think it ordinary, Eist supposed.

Well, she didn’t look any _different_ from an ordinary human, at least. No odd-colored eyes like the witchers of old. No fangs or scales or claws. But she was a dragon's daughter, and like Eist, her sire's monstrosity gave her the abilities to better sense and hunt monsters. Which, also like Eist, was why she was here, at the Ferryman’s Tavern, searching for commission. Just like most of the patrons, all half-breeds, half-monsters who spent their lives chasing down one side of their lineage at the command of the other.

The witchers were all gone now, but the monsters survived. And the world still needed someone who could kill them—and there were plenty of people willing to pay that someone quite handsomely for their services.

Speaking of. Eist scanned the room, looking for his most recent benefactor. He had a manticore’s head outside, as proof of his job completed.

“The Temerian ain’t here.” Calanthe seemed to read his gaze easily enough.

Eist felt a flutter of irritation. He didn’t like having to track down his employers to demand his fair pay.

“Apparently, he’d already gotten word of your success and came ‘round a few days ago.” She tilted her head to one side, looking at him with the kind of warm, knowing expression that never failed to affect him. “I told him that I’d look after your earnings, til you made it back.”

He already had guessed how his night would end. Her sly grin just confirmed it.

“It’s up in my room, if you’d like to get it.”

Oh, he certainly would.

* * *

Calanthe had outright lied to him, but he didn’t mind. She wasn’t at the tavern looking for a commission—there would be no reason to rent a room for the night, had she been simply looking for work. Somehow, she’d been at the tavern when the Temerian had returned, and she’d probably been staying here every night since, waiting for Eist to show up again.

He’d never confess that he’d figured it out (mainly because she’d still deny it to the teeth). Still. He rather liked the idea of her waiting. Of having her to return to.

She definitely put more sway into her hips, taking the narrow, dimly-lit staircase up to the room. He definitely did not mind. She glanced over her shoulder, the one that didn’t have the ostentatiously large double-headed ax over it, and grinned when she confirmed that he was watching her, following her every move with rapt fascination.

“Happy hunting?” She asked conversationally, as if she gave a damn.

“I’ll be happier once I see my payment and know I’ve gotten full compensation,” he returned easily enough.

Her wicked grin implied that she knew full well he wasn’t actually talking about the monetary reward he’d earned for his work.

Still, to anyone else, they were simply two fellow monster hunters, talking about their livelihood, like any other laborers in a shared field.

That was just another way he indulged her. It had been years since this particular facet of their relationship had developed, and she’d still never truly outright acknowledged it—and certainly not publicly. Not that he minded that bit. He liked having a secret, having something that was just theirs. The nature of his profession meant that he didn’t really have much to his name, not much that could be said to belong to him. This, as small and intangible as it was, was still his, still theirs, in some way.

Another set of patrons were coming down the stairs, and he and Calanthe both shifted to the side to allow them to pass. There was a light tittering and one of the women kept insanely intense eye contact with Eist as she continued on, nearly tripping down the next step.

Calanthe huffed in amusement at that.

The woman only reinforced Calanthe’s inner mantra, every time she found herself pulling Eist Tuirseach closer—it wasn’t her fault, and her reaction was perfectly natural. Expected, even. It made her…normal, in a way.

It wasn’t Calanthe’s fault that she'd always been attracted to him. He was, after all, a siren's child. It was only natural that she felt like there was an entire ocean in the cavern of her hips, constantly pulling towards him as if he were the moon. It was only natural that, at the same time, she felt as if _he_ were an entire ocean, and she wanted nothing more than to let him drown her completely.

Yes, perfectly natural, she told herself again, feeling a familiar ripple of anticipation as she opened the creaky door to her room for the night.

She closed the door behind them and propped her ax against it (knowing full well how shitty the locks were in this establishment) before moving to the bed, sliding her hand under the mattress to find the bag of coins she’d hidden there.

The ocean inside rose and roiled at the feeling of him moving closer, coming to stand behind her. She could feel him waiting (even now, even after all this time, he always waited, always made sure he'd read the signs right) and her chest tightened, as if water filled her lungs entirely.

She forced herself to stand up slowly. To take a breath and will her body not to shake. She didn’t glance back—instead she merely held up the bag at shoulder height, fire rippling down her skin at the light brush of his fingers against hers as he took it.

“You should count it,” she suggested thickly. “Make sure it’s all there.”

“I trust you,” he said simply.

“You shouldn’t trust Temerians, though.”

He huffed softly. “Xenophobe.”

“My, someone’s been reading the dictionary.”

He merely hummed. The sound slid down her spine, sinking into the churning ocean at its base.

He leaned forward, further into her, theatrically pouring the coins onto the mattress.

Silver. What a disappointment. But then she'd already known, as soon as the Temerian had handed it to her. It didn’t make her feel slightly giddy, overly warm when she touched the bag.

Eist made a small sound of dismay. “Well I know for certain you didn’t take anything.”

She huffed wryly, still fighting back the urge to lean back into him. “Coin is coin. It pays my way, no matter its metal.”

Then, with studied slowness, she leaned forward, lightly gathering the coins back together—and pushing her hips further back against him in the process. The mere contact turned her inner ocean into boiling waves. She heard his soft exhale as well and felt a measure of smug satisfaction (yes, he may be a siren, but he wasn’t immune to seduction either).

She felt a little breathless as she added, “Sometimes we have to take what we can get.”

There it was—the invitation he'd been waiting for, she knew. His hands came to her hips and she stopped for a full beat, simply bowing her head as the waves pulled her under, as he pulled her closer to him.

She braced her hands on the mattress as he continued slightly rocking her hips from side to side, as if simply enjoying the feel of her in his hands again. She arched and pushed further back, until she could fully feel the hardness of his cock beneath the layers between them. He tightened his grip and she grinned, finishing her task of collecting the coins back into their bag. But she didn’t offer it to him again—she merely tossed it towards the end of the bed, out of the way.

“Thank you.” His tone was warm and soft, just as comforting as a gentle stream.

“I didn’t do it for your gratitude,” she returned drolly.

He laughed and she couldn’t stop herself from grinning (it was fine, it didn’t matter because he couldn’t see it anyways, not in their current positions).

“I see.” His tone was now lined with playful teasing. “And how, exactly, should I repay you for your assistance?”

His hands shifted, slipping under the hem of her shirt, pushing up the curve of her waist, cool and smooth as water itself.

Another reason she craved him, she knew. Her father’s blood meant that she was almost always too hot, her skin far warmer to the touch than an ordinary human's, and Eist's hands were always welcoming in their coolness, thanks to his mother.

That was why she reacted so deeply to his touch, more than she’d ever done in response to anyone else’s. No other reason.

She tamped down the little sound of relief that the feeling of his palms on her bare skin elicited.

He heard it anyways. “Miss me?”

She rolled her eyes. “I survive just fine without you, Hound.”

He hummed at that. Still, his tone was warmer, surer as his hands slipped further up her spine, “I don’t doubt your survival skills in the least, dear Lioness. But surely there’s more to life than merely surviving.”

“If I wanted philosophy peppered into my fucking, I’d find a sphinx.”

“Oh, is that what we’re doing now?” He feigned mild confusion. Even when he pretended at naivete, it was ridiculously coy.

Yes, he was just teasing, she knew. But she felt a flutter of irritation. Because he knew, just as well as she did, how their connection worked. “It’s what we’ve been doing from the moment you walked into the tavern tonight.”

Eist couldn’t deny it (didn’t want to). The moment she’d turned and seen him tonight, his fate had been decided—just as it had always been, from the very first time she’d laid eyes on him. But even then, he could tell that she’d already sensed his presence, just as he’d felt her aura long before he’d seen her face.

And yes, they’d been fucking, even then. Maybe not physically, but every look, every breath, every light twitch of the eyebrow had been part of a dance they did every time. There had been no denying the effect, or its outcome.

He leaned forward, letting his hands move up to cup her breasts, still bound in thick strips of linen. Always ready for a war, that one, he thought amusedly—though he also rather liked getting to unwrap her, to watch softness appear from under the streamlined and battle-ready layers, so he never could truly complain (wouldn’t, even if he could).

“Like this,” she said quietly, and he understood.

Sometimes, they undressed fully, took their time. Sometimes, it was quick and half-dressed, as sudden as her temper. Obviously, she preferred the latter tonight.

“You really did miss me,” he teased. “Can’t even wait long enough to properly pull off a shirt?”

“I left a compelling knife-throwing game and a decent pint downstairs,” she drawled. “I’d like to return to it, as quickly as possible.”

He laughed. She never gave an inch. He adored her for it.

He stepped back, pulling her up with him. She stood up fully, focusing on untying her breeches. The action made her head tilt forward just enough to expose the nape of her neck, and he leaned back in, kissing the spot that was already almost too hot to the touch. His hands slid around her hips, taking over and gently pushing her own hands out of the way to finish untying and opening her breeches, left hand bracing against her abdomen as his right slipped further down. He let his teeth test against the back of her neck as she twittered, widening her stance to give his hand better access between her thighs.

She was already so slick that he had to close his eyes for a full beat, almost too overwhelmed. She shivered a bit in his arms, and even though she didn’t actually make a sound, he could feel the way her lungs held back a little whimper of relief. His head only spun further at all the little nuances, the little subtleties of desire. She always overpowered him in the smallest of ways, every time.

Years, now. Years since the drunken night at this very tavern, when she’d dragged him out into the darkened alley and had blown his mind up against a wall. Years of this, and it never seemed to lessen in intensity.

He felt the surge of heat across her skin—not just beneath his lips, but simply radiating from her entire body, through both their shirts, warming him as deeply as an open flame.

He let one finger slip further in before slowly finding its way back up to her clit. He smirked at the second blossom of heat across her skin at his first stroke.

She tilted her face back to the ceiling, effectively pushing his lips from their perch. She leaned back against him slightly, her hands pulling her breeches further down.

“Don’t tease.” If it was meant to be a command, it was far too light and breathy to hold any authority. He doubted it was meant as a plea—she wasn’t the type, not even now, when he could physically feel her desperation radiating against him.

“Never,” he assured her softly, bringing his lips to the shell of her ear. “I’m simply…enjoying.”

“Enjoy with other parts of yourself,” she suggested, and he chuckled softly at the predictability.

She really was almost too hot to touch. He realized that she’d been waiting for him for days now—because the moment she'd seen his Temerian benefactor, she’d instantly known that she’d see him again soon, and she’d spent that whole time here, just…waiting.

Dragons were not renowned for their patience.

Still, he felt another measure of ridiculous joy at the thought that she had genuinely made a decision that actively put her in his path.

There weren’t rules, but there were…unspoken boundaries. They didn’t seek each other out, didn’t really spend more time than was necessary with each other. Their paths crossed, and then uncrossed. Ships in the night.

A decade ago, they'd both joined a group of hunters who took on a few dragons. They'd traveled and camped together, as part of the group—and somewhere along the way, they'd become friends. Or at least as much as Calanthe seemed capable of making anyone a friend. Eventually the group disbanded and they went their separate ways.

Then they’d both gravitated towards the Ferryman’s Tavern, a place that was known for holding monster hunters in search of a commission—as well as safe for their kind. The second factor was equally important. Not everyone welcomed the children of monsters with open arms. Not that Eist blamed them.

A few years of occasional chance meetings, followed by the change between them. They still crossed paths a few times a year—just now, the crossing was a little more…involved.

Now that Eist thought about it, they had seemed to run into each other a bit more frequently over the past year or so. And tonight, he had no doubt that she’d created the circumstances entirely on her own, no happenstance needed.

He didn’t dare dream of what that might mean.

He didn’t even know what he would want it to mean, truth be told. They had fun (except that wasn’t the right word, not by far), and she had always been a delightful companion, with her wit and fire and fangs—but the idea of something more, something more predictable and constant…Eist feared losing what they had, if _more_ became a reality.

Current reality was becoming impatient.

Her hand tightened around his right wrist, still half-buried between her thighs—the searing sensation was enough to jolt him fully back to the present moment.

“This wasn’t the payment I was promised,” she all but hissed, nearly shaking with want.

He wanted to laugh at her absolute audacity. He hadn’t _promised_ her anything—and yet here she was, already petulantly making demands, as if he had truly reneged on a pledge of honor.

Calanthe waited a beat, feeling the shift ripple through his body. Yes, just as he could pull at the ocean between her hips, she could push fire into his veins. Eist was being far too soft, and that wasn’t what they were, wasn’t what she wanted.

It was already bad enough—she had…missed him, almost. Even now, she’d maneuvered their bodies so that she wouldn’t have to look at his face. Sometimes it was like that—too much. She couldn’t quite look at him, until after, when the adrenaline was gone and the pheromones or whatever-the-fuck-else he commanded died down.

That was natural. The same urge that drew sailors deeper into the water. It wasn’t his fault. Still, Calanthe had no intention of drowning on dry land.

His left arm fully wrapped around her, holding her close as he whispered almost-harshly in her ear, “And what exactly were you promised?”

A tempest, then. She felt a measure of satisfaction. Good, let it billow and rain. Let her be inundated.

She let her right hand slip between their bodies, slowly and deeply rubbing against the bulge in his breeches, “Full compensation.”

His hips shifted, matching the rhythm of her hand. His teeth came out, following the line of her neck again. One bite was particularly hard and she couldn’t stop the small, sharp sound she made in response.

That was the final straw, apparently. His hands left her body and she practically fell forward, hands planting on the mattress as she fought back near-tears of relief at the sound of him untying his own breeches and shifting closer again.

His hand was on her hip, pulling her back as he pushed inside. She let out a soft, long huff at the sudden sensation of fullness, the odd mixture of needy relief and clawing desperation swelling in her veins and forcing her eyes to squeeze shut.

She couldn’t look him in the face right now, but that didn’t stop her mind from remembering it in various other situations. The soft shadowy glow of it, the last time they'd been in this very room as he'd lain beneath her, hands on her hips keeping her steady as she rocked and pulled with slow building intent. The pale blueness of it, the last time they'd been together like this, when they'd left this place after drinks (and no rooms to be had, all taken for the evening) and walked through a nearby field, where things devolved beneath the moon and afterwards he'd lain beside her, merely watching with a soft fondness that terrified her. The bright delight of it, just tonight, when he'd seen her in the tavern.

He had almost-missed her, too, she realized. She dipped her head lower and curled her fingers into the mattress.

Eist channeled his mild frustration into a more rewarding outlet—she could be an absolute tyrant sometimes, a trait which he suspected was less a misfortune of her lineage and more of a continued personal choice. He'd wanted a moment of calm, to simply thank her for waiting, to simply enjoy being together again, and she’d been impatient and demanding as always. Well, he'd give her what she asked for (knowing it only rewarded her behavior and finding he still couldn’t deny her). He let his grip on her hips become even firmer, fingers pushing deeper into the soft warmth as he pushed deeper inside her, eliciting a few small, needy sounds that only redoubled his energy.

Calanthe pushed against the mattress, further into him, feeling a sense of relief at the force and rhythm of it all. Yes, _this_ , she’d missed this—her _body_ had missed this, and that was only natural.

Eist, no doubt, took lovers right and left. It was in his nature. But she was not one for such things. She was far from prudish, but trust was vital to any sort of physical entanglement. And not…in the way most would assume. She could hold her own against almost anyone; she never truly feared for her safety in that way.

But dragons know better than anyone how easily the world can lie, how sweetly tongues can talk to distract from hands that caged, how strongly trust can be made and how easily it can be broken.

There had been very few she’d trusted enough, over the years. Eist was a constant exception.

She loved him for it.

Her heart skittered and slammed into overdrive at the thought. No, no, that couldn’t be—she was just overwhelmed right now, passionate thoughts in a passionate moment. She often felt odd things like this when she was around him. It was just the siren call, she reminded herself.

Still, for now, she closed her eyes and let it call her forward, let the low shaking sound in her lungs slip up her throat, let herself grin at the small noise of approval he made in response, let herself relish the tightening grip on her hips. She could allow herself a moment—a moment to pretend this feeling was real, that it was mutual, that the things he did to her were because he felt the same, not because her dragon’s blood charmed him beyond all hope, charmed him into doing whatever she wanted.

That part always caused a bit of worry. It had taken her years to learn her own powers, but when she had—oh, the power she held over people (when she could control herself long enough to use it). The idea that maybe, some of this thing with Eist…might be beyond his consent or control, it soured her stomach.

Except he held the same power over her, over others. So it was…balanced, right?

She never asked. She was too terrified of the answer. And more still, too terrified to see if she actually could undo this thing between them, if she had to.

Another wave surged through her hips, hot and overwhelming. No, this was mutual. Maybe not a thing of mutually-felt love or adoration or whatever she thought she felt in the moment—but mutually affecting, at least.

And mutually rewarding, she thought smugly as her body began to coil with tension. He was moving faster now, closer to the edge, and she focused on pushing further into him, letting him in deeper. He was holding her so tightly that her skin began to sting. So close, she knew. She closed her eyes again, tried to give him whatever he needed. Then he was practically lifting her feet off the floor, shuddering inside her with a moan that set her whole body aflame.

Eist pulled out and let his hand take over, feeling a measure of smug satisfaction for Calanthe’s twittering sound of surprised delight. She dipped her head forward and pushed into his fingers. He kept going, until she was collapsed on to the mattress entirely, shaking and panting. Then he shifted, stretching out beside her on the bed and continuing until she was moaning into the bedclothes, clenching around his fingers so tightly that he couldn’t remove his hand, even if he wanted to.

He slowed, but kept stroking, until she was practically boneless, the heat now radiating from her body with a lazy, warm air. Then, slowly, he withdrew. Theatrically, he wiped his fingers on the bedclothes. Traces of her, and him, he mused. The only evidence they ever really left behind.

“You know that will probably still be here, the next time we rent this room,” she pointed out, mouth hooking into an amused smile. Given the general cleanliness of the entire tavern, her prediction had an air of truth, Eist decided.

Still, he shook his head in mocking somberness. “No, they definitely scrub the entire room, top to bottom, whenever the likes of us have been in here.”

She hummed in amusement at that. Then rolled onto her back and simply looked at him. There was something soft in her eyes, something he didn’t get to see often but he always cherished seeing, nonetheless.

She’d looked at him like that, the last time they’d been together. In the time since, he’d half-convinced himself that he’d imagined it. But here it was again, quietly miraculous and entirely real, entirely focused on him.

He shifted closer again, moving his hand lower—but her hand on his wrist stopped him. “Please. Any more and I’ll burst into flames.”

He grinned at the unspoken compliment, but he needed to clarify. “That wasn’t my intention. Quite the opposite.”

She understood, gently releasing his wrist. He let his hand slip under the hem of her doublet, palm singing at the heat radiating from the softness of her stomach.

She sighed and closed her eyes. He moved closer again, hand shifting higher in lazy, small circles, cooling off what he could as his lips shifted to her neck.

Her voice was raspy, still half-hazy. “I told you, I left a good pint—”

“A _decent_ pint, if I remember correctly. And it can wait a few minutes more,” he pointed out. He nipped her earlobe, pressed kisses down the line of her neck. Despite her protests, she wriggled closer to him, turning her head so that more of her neck was available for him to savor. “I still need to thoroughly thank you for your invaluable help.”

She grinned at that, eyes still closed in a sleepy-warm expression of satisfaction. “Oh, I’d say you’ve already been _quite_ thorough.”

He merely hummed, stroking down her side with his fingertips again. She shivered, and he felt a measure of satisfaction as well. She was already cooler to the touch, thanks to his.

This was part of what he loved about their connection, too. The woman could have anyone she wanted—but how many could truly help her, even in such small ways? Eist rather liked the idea that somehow, he was different. That he gave just as much as he took, that he made her life easier, even in the briefest of moments, in the tiniest of ways.

“So you have this room for the night?” He asked conversationally. She chuckled at that.

“I do,” she returned warmly.

“I just so happens that I was thinking of passing an evening at this…hallowed establishment—”

“Were you, now? What a coincidence.”

He hummed at that, taking a beat to nip the pulse-point, just below her jaw. She arched slightly, pushing just a bit more into his teeth. Wryly, she added, “It’d be a shame to waste the coin you just so valiantly earned. You should share my room.”

“Practical woman, as always.”

Now it was her turn to hum. She rolled onto her side, further into him. His hand slid around her waist, holding her. He felt his heart skitter at the way her dark eyes smiled as she brushed the tip of her nose against his, bright and playful.

“I really was serious about that pint and that knife-throwing game.” She pecked the tip of his nose with a kiss before pushing off the mattress and onto her feet again, pulling up her breeches with a slight wriggle of her hips.

He watched her with lazy amusement. She truly was like a sea breeze—constantly blowing and shifting, sometimes soft, sometimes forceful, but always, always moving.

“Coming?” She asked, looking up from tying her breeches.

He grinned. “Was that ever truly a question?”

She gave a bright, breathless smile before moving to the door and grabbing her ax. “You can use some of that new coin to buy me a drink. It’s the least you can do.”

He laughed as he rose to his feet and made himself presentable again. “Aye. But it truly is the least of what I _will_ do.”

She was shining again as she looked at him, fully aware of what such a promise meant.

“Just remember, my darling hound of the sea.” She stepped back, opening the creaking door again. “I will absolutely hold you to it.”

Oh, of that he had no doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had really really hoped to have more than just these two chapters for a start, but here we are, c'est la vie. 
> 
> Update Schedule: (starting this Friday) will be Sundays/Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.


	3. The Sphinx's Warning

Predictably, Calanthe drank too much, got too competitive, and nearly came to blows with the Shrike—who as a harpy’s child was just as terrifying in her fits of temper. Luckily Eist used his charms to soothe the situation and the women begrudgingly abandoned their knife-throwing and wandered off for another drink.

Eist watched them walk away with a slight smile. He liked Shrike. A few years back, she’d been part of a larger hunting party that Eist had joined for a while, and they’d gotten to know each other. She was quite like Calanthe, truth be told. Quick to anger, almost just as quick to start swinging her fist.

Not that it was her fault, entirely. They were all products of their monstrous parentage, in one way or another, Eist supposed.

Even the parents that didn’t mean to be monsters, he thought softly. As a child, he never would have considered his own mother such a thing—even now, with all the ways he'd seen sirens commit murder and mayhem, it was hard to reconcile with the woman who'd gently placed her hands over his as they rolled out dough for the pies for supper, the woman who rocked him to sleep with low, tuneless humming as she stroked the space between his brows, the one who knit his winter mittens and kissed his cheeks warm again when the wind got too cold.

But then again, she had left when he was still so young. He wasn’t even sure which of his memories were real and which were false, created during the years of childhood when he would have given anything to have her back, when he comforted himself by imagining how different his life would be if his mother had stayed, if he had been the kind of son who had made her want to stay, always.

“Hullo, you.” A quiet voice broke him from his thoughts. Even before he turned towards the source—truly, even before the greeting had been uttered—he knew Vanielle was at his side.

Now that Calanthe wasn’t pushing her charm into the room, it was easier to pick up on other supernatural signatures. While Eist couldn’t always tell exactly what a creature was, based on the signature—nor who the owner might be, even if the owner was a familiar face—the Bruggian's was quite distinct.

Her grandmother had been a sphinx. Her mother had been raised amongst the creatures—and Vanielle had spent her earliest childhood years with them, too.

It had made her odd as fucking hell, truth be told. She didn’t always quite speak in ways that made sense, and sometimes she'd fall into odd trances, seeing visions and giving prophecy. Eist pitied her, a bit—of all the monstrous inheritances to be given, Vanielle had the least amount of control over hers.

“Hullo yourself.” He nodded, giving a smile of greeting. She'd never been anything less than polite to Eist, and he made a habit of repaying kindness with kindness.

“There was a Koviri searching for you.” She blinked up at him.

“Temerian,” Eist corrected. “And I got what he meant to leave for me.”

She frowned at that. “No. No, he isn’t—he didn’t—”

The door to the tavern opened and a newcomer strode in with a rather determined look.

“Ah,” Vanielle blinked again. “He won’t.”

“Won’t what?” Eist was thoroughly confused.

Vanielle's expression muddled as well. “I thought—but no, it has not yet come to pass—what day is it, Hound?”

She didn’t know his real name. Few did. He only knew hers because she refused to take on a hunter's alias. Then again, she didn’t hunt, though sometimes she aided those who did.

“I haven’t a clue,” he admitted. And it was true. He'd slept quite deeply after battling the manticore. He wasn’t sure if he'd slept a single night, or through a full day after as well.

“They’re such slippery things, aren’t they?” Vanielle mused. “Coming and going and returning again—but here he is, he'll want you. He wants you? _Wanted_ you. I’m not certain anymore.”

Eist was about to ask the woman how much she'd had to drink for the evening when the stranger headed directly for him.

Human. Eist could tell. And a particularly determined one at that, given the speed of his gait.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eist saw Calanthe shift to attention. Even ridiculously drunk, she was on-alert. Her gaze was a bit unfocused, lazily curious instead of outright wary.

“The Skelligen Hound, are you?”

Oh, from the far north then, judging by the accent (the light-colored hair and the wind-chapped face further solidified the suspicion).

_A Koviri_ , Vanielle's voice echoed in his head.

“Aye,” Eist answered slowly, shifting to fully face the stranger. “And you are?”

“Zagradd Nyt.” The stranger offered his hand. Eist merely looked at it. “I came all the way from Kovir—”

Behind him, Eist felt Vanielle shift slightly. Well, whatever little dream she’d seen, it was coming true. He couldn’t imagine it was a good sign. People generally didn’t come to warn you that good luck was headed your way.

“—searching for a hunter. I was told that Verden was the place to go.” Zagradd Nyt slowly lowered his hand, which Eist had never taken, but he didn’t seem offended. He kept looking at Eist with an incredibly keen stare. “Along my journey, I met a Temerian who had hired a hunter not too long ago himself.”

Eist’s most recent employer, no doubt.

“He told me of a Skelligen Hound. One who had rid his land of a manticore.”

“That would be me.” Eist gave a slight nod of confirmation.

The man’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Thank the gods. We need—”

Eist quickly stopped him. “Sir, I have no doubt your need is worthy and great—but as your Temerian friend pointed out, I’ve only just hunted. A manticore, no less. I am neither ready nor willing to pursue another hunt at this time—”

“But we need—”

“A hunter, yes. I’m sure you do. Look around. This entire tavern is riddled with them. I’m sure there are many who could—”

“But you are the best,” Zagradd interjected. There was a sheen of desperation to his eyes. “I have asked—I have been here for two days now, enquiring about you. Our monster has already claimed so many—we need a hunter who is able to truly face it. You _are_ that hunter. You are the greatest among them.”

“He’s not.” A flat, bored voice responded.

Eist tried not to grin as he focused his attention on Calanthe, who had somehow snuck closer while he wasn’t looking. She was standing just over the Koviri’s shoulder, hands on her hips and mouth set in an unimpressed moue. She shifted slightly, the light from the tavern’s hearth highlighting the curved blade of her ax, strapped to her back.

“I mean, he’s good.” She gave a slight shrug, poked her bottom lip out in a slight moue of disagreement. “But the best? I wouldn’t go so far.”

“Then who is?” Zagradd Nyt asked.

Calanthe merely raised her brows slowly.

“Forgive me.” Zagradd gave a slight smile. “But this monster—by all accounts, it is quite large—”

“Size has never been an issue for me.” Gods help him, Eist had to physically turn away when she shot him a look, the double-entendre so plain that he nearly burst into laughter. However, her face was completely stoic as she continued, “And besides, if it kills me, you won’t have to pay. So it’s not as if you’re losing anything in the bargain.”

Zagradd shook his head, “You do not understand—”

“I have slain dragons,” she returned curtly. “My first one, on my very own. With nothing more than a knife.”

Eist blinked. He’d never heard this story before ( _how_ had he never heard this story before?). He gauged her expression, tried to tell if she was lying simply to make a point. Dragons were hard to kill, even with a group of hunters. But to do so alone, with merely a knife? Near impossible.

She kept her dark gaze locked intently on Zagradd’s face. “So perhaps _you_ do not understand, good sir.”

A weighted beat passed. Zagradd merely sized her up. Then something in his shoulders eased, as if he accepted her words.

“Do you pay in gold coin?” She asked quietly.

“I can,” he returned.

She gave a curt nod. “Then come, tell me of your great monster.”

“Now wait.” Eist held up a hand. “I never said I wouldn’t take the commission.”

Calanthe smirked at that. Cocking her head to the side slightly, she echoed his earlier statement, “ _I am neither ready nor willing to pursue another hunt at this time_. That seems like a pretty direct refusal. Or were you just playing hard to get?”

He merely grinned back. In truth, he had no desire to take the commission—nor to take it away from Calanthe. It was just…sometimes, he liked engaging with her, in any way that he could.

She knew all this. She was tilting her head back slightly, looking down the full length of her nose at him, even though she was half a foot shorter, eyes still lazy-warm from the alcohol and mouth still curling at the corners in amusement.

Zagradd was watching him, too—with a hopeful expression. He was still convinced that Eist was his best chance, and he still desperately wanted his help.

Well, it gave Eist an excuse to cram into a small booth in the back corner with Calanthe—and what else was he doing, except waiting to go back upstairs with her, anyways?

“Why don’t we both listen to this man’s tale?” He suggested, with absolute innocence.

Her wolfish grin informed him that she was well-aware of the game afoot. “A practical suggestion as always, Hound.”

* * *

Calanthe didn’t really _need_ a new commission. She was, by her nature, a hoarder of coin and she was more than comfortable financially, most of the time. But then again, she didn’t start hunting for profit, and truth be told, she rarely took a job because of its pay—it was, as always, the challenge that ultimately decided the matter.

She had wandered over out of idle curiosity. The northerner had been so intensely focused on finding Eist—a slight oddity, as most people came in and asked around, perhaps made a general announcement to see who might be interested. Rarely did someone come looking for a specific hunter.

So Calanthe had gotten closer. Just…to see. Eist could more than handle the stranger if things came to blows, but then again, Calanthe was never one to miss out on a brawl.

Then she had noted something in that odd little Bruggian's face. Something…stricken. It had immediately made her wary.

It had immediately made her want to step in.

Not to save Eist, of course. Because he didn’t need saving, and she was no white knight, even if he did.

No, not because of that. Not at all.

No, it was because the man had claimed Eist was _the best_ —and despite the Hound’s many enjoyable and admirable qualities, there was only so much her pride could withstand (not much, actually, and for that she blamed her father).

Now she'd take the job, just to prove a bloody point.

_The greatest among them_ , indeed.

She let Eist get into the booth first, then studiously pretended not to notice just how close she slid her own body next to his, legs touching from hip to knee.

Eist pretended right along with her, casually casting his glance across the table, where the northerner sat in his own booth.

“Tell your tale, good sir,” Calanthe drawled. She reached for her pint again, but then stopped. She should have stopped drinking over an hour ago; she probably shouldn’t addle her brain any further.

Under the table, Eist's hand lightly came to her thigh. Usually his touch felt cooling—currently, it brought only heat. Inwardly, she was rather glad that they'd already agreed as to exactly how this night would end.

“It started in the winter—at least we think so. The snows are so deep and so thick in Kovir; people don’t leave their homes unless they dwell in the city. But the ones living in the forests, further up the mountains—you go months without seeing them.”

The two hunters merely nodded in understanding.

Zagradd continued, “The spring returned and…certain people did not. The beekeepers, the ones who bring berry preserves, a few others who bring down things to sell in the markets—for one or two not to return, well, that is noticed, but not seen as odd. Those blizzards, they can get quite fierce, and not everyone survives the long winter.”

“How many people have to go missing to make it seem odd?” Eist asked quietly. He glanced across the tavern—Vanielle was still watching him, face etched with concern. Whatever Nyt brought with him, it wasn’t good. And now Calanthe was wading into it as well. The thought made his stomach coil uneasily.

“About twenty,” came the reply. “Mostly families, at that. So when the snows thawed and still no sign, some villagers went up into the mountains to check on a few of those who had not been seen since before the snows.”

Now Zagradd's expression went queasy. Calanthe could guess why.

“And they found them?” She prompted.

“Yes,” Zagradd nodded softly. “In a way.”

“How many have died since then?” Eist asked.

“That we know of? Nearly fifty, including the ones we found after winter. But—” Zagradd held his hands out in a gesture of uncertainty. “Those are the bodies we have found. There have also been a few people simply….go missing. And who’s to say of the travelers, the ones who roam the world and never have someone keeping track of them?”

Calanthe hummed at that. The numbers were still swimming in her head as she tried to compare them against the number of months at play. It was summer now, but winter lasted longer in Kovir, especially in the mountains, she knew—she actually _should_ know this, but her brain was too sluggish. She really shouldn’t have had those last five drinks.

Eist’s fingertips lightly curled into her thigh. Except this time, the touch wasn’t seductive.

Apparently his much-clearer head could do better math—and apparently the numbers were not good.

“We tried—a group of local hunters—regular hunters not…your type.” Zagradd cast an almost-apologetic look their way. “They went up into the mountains, trying to track down the monster. But…only one came back. He didn’t last long after he did, though.”

“Did he at least give you a description—anything that might help?” Eist frowned. Most of the time, he knew what he was tracking, before he started hunting.

“Only that it was a beast of some sort, and that it attacked at night, while most of the hunters were sleeping. The screams were what woke him.”

Again, Eist looked across the tavern—Vanielle was still watching him, although she was trying to distract herself by talking to Shrike. A creature that could take out an entire band of hunters, even if they weren’t used to hunting monsters in particular, was a rare thing indeed. While Calanthe was obviously more skilled and better equipped than the average huntsman, Eist didn’t like the idea of her going into such a situation alone (yes, he knew she had gone into such situations alone dozens of times before, but Vanielle’s face—this was different, somehow, he could tell, and his entire body felt restless and ill at the realization).

Calanthe hummed as she cocked her head to the side, squinting slightly at the Koviri. “And you…just now decided to hire some hunters?”

She wasn’t actually able to truly count out the months, in her current state. But it seemed like a lot of time had passed. Maybe it hadn’t.

“It takes a fortnight just to get here,” Zagradd pointed out. “And the attacks…they don’t happen constantly.”

Now Calanthe and Eist exchanged looks.

“Maybe once a month?” Eist guessed, still keeping his gaze on Calanthe. Even in her drunken state, the wheels in her mind were turning—he could tell that she was beginning to think the same thing.

Zagradd considered the question. “Maybe. We aren’t…always sure when they actually happen. Sometimes it’s a few days until…until we find the bodies.”

“Therianthrope?” Calanthe was talking solely to Eist—it was evident that this northerner had no fucking clue.

“My guess as well.” He nodded in agreement. Then, with a downward tilt of his chin and an upward shift of his brows, he added, “Either way, sounds like the kind of hunt that needs more than one hunter.”

She shifted a little, pressing more of her thigh into his grasp. “Trying to get back in on the action here, Hound?”

“Offering to help. As only a friend would.”

Her smirk deepened. Only a friend, indeed.

Still, she pushed back, “Think I can’t handle it on my own?”

“If it is a therianthrope, there’s a high likelihood that you’ll be up against more than one,” Eist pointed out quietly. He didn’t glance back over, but he could feel Vanielle still watching. Calanthe was still smirking at him, and the idea of something happening, something horrific enough to be foretold in a vision, sent a little flash of ice through his heart, sharp and cold.

“Well, I do so love a challenge,” she reminded him. Her tone was coy and playful, her thigh solid and warm beneath his hand. Yet suddenly all he could think of was their last hunt together, when she’d gotten her arm pinned beneath a rock and had very nearly been killed by a striga. She still had trouble with her left shoulder sometimes, and her right pinky was missing past the top joint, thanks to the striga’s teeth. In all his hunts, he wasn’t sure that he’d ever been more terrified. His death he’d faced a dozen times without blinking. Her death had been a horror he couldn’t bring himself to contemplate.

For years now, he’d learned to push that feeling back, to remind himself that she was clever and capable, every time he saw her take a commission—to reassure himself that she’d come back, every time she left him.

Maybe he was still just overly-exhausted from the manticore. Because this time, he couldn’t stop the feeling from surging up his throat like bile. His mind kept flashing between the look she’d given him earlier tonight as she’d bumped their noses together, soft and playful, and the look on her face as she’d seen the striga preparing to lunge at her, fully-aware of just how helpless she was against the attack, scared and painful.

Eist had gone somewhere, Calanthe noted. He had an odd look on his face, almost dazed. She crossed her legs, quietly trapping his hand between her thighs and giving it a squeeze, bringing him back to the present moment.

With a blink, he returned. Offered a smooth smile as he said, “I’m sure you’ll find plenty of ways to make it challenging, regardless. But having an extra set of hands would still be useful.”

She grinned, both at the quip and in relief. Having _his_ hands around in particular—her blood warmed further at the thought.

“Would you? Consider such a thing?” The northerner interrupted, much to Calanthe’s aggravation. She returned her attention to the man, with far less sparkle in her eyes than when she'd looked at Eist. “I’m not sure—I don’t know if we could properly pay you both, not what you’re surely worth—”

“Few can,” Calanthe informed him flatly. “Lucky for you, we're in a particularly _giving_ mood. Aren’t we, Hound?”

Her dark gaze shifted back to him, and he was certain literally everyone at the table caught the double-entendre of her words (she really was far drunker than usual, not as careful, Eist noted). If the tone had been missed, the outright obscene look she gave him was still extremely visible.

He glanced back at Zagradd, whose mind was obviously busy working out exactly what their connection was to each other ( _good luck_ , Eist thought, as he barely knew himself, half the time).

“We can figure out some sort of arrangement,” Eist agreed quietly.

Both Calanthe and Zagradd Nyt smiled back at him. They were two entirely different sorts of smiles.

Eist looked over at Vanielle, one last time. Upon seeing those same smiles, her expression fell. She looked absolutely stricken.

Eist tried not to imagine what that could mean, for both him and Calanthe.

* * *

Vanielle tried to listen to the Shrike yammer on about some kind of blade—presumably the one currently in her hand, which flashed ( _shiny, dull, shadow, shiny again_ ) distractingly in the firelight as she twirled it over her fingers, again and again.

But she couldn’t shake the feeling. She was too late. Somehow, she'd gotten here earlier than planned and yet somehow, was still too late.

Again her gaze slid uneasily to the back of the tavern, where the Hound and the Lioness sat with the Koviri.

The Hound she trusted. The Lioness she feared. Now with more reason than ever, after what she’d seen.

She could mark the moment the Hound agreed to the hunt, the moment he unknowingly chose his fate. Her throat tightened.

He glanced in her direction.

She had to warn him. Usually, she didn’t step in the way of such things—she rarely told those around her when she saw visions of them. She was merely a witness of what would come to pass; it was not her place to try and divert the course of destiny.

But she genuinely liked the Hound. He was a good soul, and those were few and far between in the world of humans, she had found. He didn’t deserve the future she had seen for him.

She waited until they all stood and shook hands, her chest clenching at the sight of the deal being sealed. The Koviri left. The Lioness said something and readjusted the ax strapped over her shoulder, sauntering back towards the stairs. She glanced back at the Hound, who was already watching her with a smile.

Ah, so they were mating again. The humans called it something else, but it was no different to Vanielle than the birds in spring—the Lioness puffed and preened like a peacock, and invariably, the Hound always chose to follow her. Just like every other dance between every other species.

The Hound, for whatever reason, stayed behind. Vanielle assumed that he was trying to hide the fact that they were mates. Pointless, as anyone with eyes could see it.

Humans. Such funny little creatures. The only ones who tried to hide themselves without reason. Animals hid when scared, hunted, or hunting, when injured or in need of rest. Humans walked openly amongst the world and yet hid every measure of their true selves, for reasons Vanielle still could not fathom.

Regardless, it worked in her favor. She went straight up to the Hound.

“You have decided to aid the Koviri.”

The Hound frowned for a moment. Then said, “Aye.”

“Turn back.”

His frown deepened. He searched her face. Quietly he said, “Vanielle. What did you see?”

She swallowed hard. This was the hard part to explain, even if she were better with the Common Tongue. She didn’t _see_ , most of the time. She _felt_ , she sensed, with ripples of direct intuition, very rarely accompanied by actual images to help explain or clarify.

It was why sphinxes were so mistrusted, she knew. They couldn’t explain themselves in a way that humans could understand.

“This…this trip to the far north will be the end of you. Of….yourself. And the Lioness will bring it about.”

Eist blinked hard at that. He had discussed the nature of visions with Vanielle, so he knew that for the most part, this vague answer was as much as he was going to get—Vanielle had a general idea of what would happen, but she rarely knew specifics. He tried to make sense of it—Calanthe would betray him? Or would she merely be responsible for his death in some way? Was it technically because he’d only accepted this commission because of her?

“Death and destruction awaits, if you go north,” Vanielle repeated gently. Her face was set with certainty.

“And what of the Lioness?” He asked. Instinctively, he looked to the stairs—she was already long gone, already waiting for him in her room. If death and destruction were waiting in the north, they’d be waiting for her, too.

“She is a harbinger,” Vanielle returned. “She only brings about destruction. It never befalls her.”

That sounded about right, truth be told. Eist still wasn’t entirely sure how the woman had survived this world as long as she had, with all the chaos she'd caused over the years.

“That is her nature, and in turn, her fate,” Vanielle informed him. “She cannot undo or escape it. But you can choose your destiny, Hound. Choose not to go north.”

“Ever?”

Vanielle shook her head. “The vision—it only for this moment, this crossroads. If you go north with the Lioness, you will be cursed. You will be driven from the village and called a monster by the very ones you try to save.”

“Honestly, that sounds like an average hunt with Cal,” Eist returned, completely deadpan.

“Who?”

“The Lioness,” he clarified. With a slight shrug, he added, “But I don’t see how this could bring about my death.”

“It isn’t—it won’t be—it hasn’t been—” Vanielle stopped for a moment, took a deep breath, and tried again. “She is a harbinger. She brings multitudes of destruction. The choices you make along the way— _that_ will determine what kind of destruction you see.”

He didn’t understand. She could tell.

“Don’t go,” she said simply. “You are good, and this will curse you.”

He was already looking to the stairs again. To her. To the harbinger.

“I gave my word.” His voice was quiet. Determined.

Vanielle sighed. She startled slightly at the weight of the Hound's hand on her shoulder, looking back up into eyes as blue as the sea.

“Thank you,” he said, and he meant it (so few humans said what they meant, but he almost always did, and it was why she liked him).

Then he turned and followed the wake of his own destruction, up the stairs and into the shadows.

Humans. She’d never understand them.

* * *

Eist considered the Bruggian's words as he hurried up the stairs. He knew her visions could be a bit…muddled, and definitely open to interpretation.

So she'd seen some stuff that made her worried. If she’d spent any real amount of time around Calanthe, she'd understand why. The woman wasn’t exactly adept at making friends, and her brusqueness easily made enemies. There were even a few villages in Cintra that she couldn’t ever show her face again—and half of those were simply because there wasn’t a village left standing, by the time the Lioness had walked away from the flames she’d created.

Still, some things made him pause, too. The things Vanielle had seen—there had to be more, had to be something deeper and more frightening, or else she wouldn’t have sought him out.

_The end of you_. Could be literal, could be figurative. She’d said as much. Literal death didn’t scare him. At least not his own.

He opened the door and found Calanthe grinning at him, eyes dancing like stars. Again, he thought to himself: _I can’t let her go alone, especially now I know there’s a greater danger._

Calanthe could manage on her own, of that he had no doubt. She was like a cat, always landing on her feet. But now he knew specifically that there would be difficulties beforehand—he knew and had a chance to ease them, in some small way—how could he not do what he could to help her?

She reached for him, and true to her nature, she breathed fire, straight into his lungs with a searing kiss as she kept moving forward, pinning him against the door.

“Seems we have reason to celebrate,” she murmured, the grin evident in her tone. She kept her lips close to his, kept her body pressed up against him as her hands lightly stroked over his shoulders and down his arms. “We haven’t been on a hunt together in ages.”

She sounded…excited at the idea. Or maybe that was just excitement over their means of celebration. She was already rising up on her toes, pushing past his teeth with her tongue, pinning him further against the door.

_She brings multitudes of destruction_ , the words echoed in his mind. He felt a familiar swell of affection, surprisingly—yes, that sounded like Calanthe, and yes, it was why he loved her so.

Yes, he knew he loved her. Had known, perhaps even before they began occasionally falling into bed together. It was part of the reason he never wished for more between them. The idea of potentially losing what they had now, of losing her, of losing the sides of her that he loved seeing most, the soft and quiet moments they shared now, even if briefly—just the thought made his chest tighten uncomfortably.

_The end of you._ Figurative death—the death of other things, of relationships—that did scare him. The idea of something being dead and lost between them in particular frightened him even more.

But it was a bit hard to think on such things, when she was already undressing him, hands shaking and palms hot as they slipped up his chest, fingertips flexing into his flesh gratefully as she hummed in his mouth.

And then it was hard to think of anything else, when he was able to undress her. She had new bruises and she amusedly explained their origins, something in her expression quite pleased at the thought that he so clearly remembered her body since the last time he’d truly seen it.

How could he lose this? His heart ached again as he considered the Bruggian’s words. _The end of you, the Lioness will bring it about._ Would Calanthe finally decide she’d had enough of this, of them, of him? Since the beginning, he’d always known that this would last for exactly as long as Calanthe wanted it to—and he’d prepared himself for the day when she wouldn’t want it anymore. But the years dragged on and the chance meetings kept happening—and then more meetings, seeming less chanced, happened as well.

They couldn’t have more than this, he knew. But he didn’t want anything less than this, either.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, with her standing between his knees, both finally completely undressed. She must have noticed his distraction—her hand came up, fingertips trilling through the stubble along his jaw.

“Where’d you go, Hound?” She asked, tone still tinged with playfulness. But when he looked up, he saw the slight quirk in her brows, the look of uneasy hesitation. She was worried. While he felt a measure of delight at the thought that she cared enough to worry over him, he felt a larger measure of chagrin—he never wanted her to be worried or anxious. He wanted her to always be the shining, playful thing that had greeted him the moment he’d entered the tavern this evening.

“Nowhere,” he lied softly. He placed his hands on her hips and gently pulled her forward to nuzzle into her chest, relishing the soft warmth of her skin. “I’m right here.”

Then he tightened his hold and hauled her onto the bed, his blood warming further at her twitter of surprise, at how easily her body followed along with absolute trust as they fell back and rolled so that he was hovering over her.

Her expressions shifted slightly, from amused delight to something a bit more careful and cautious. “We should…during the hunt, we shouldn’t…be, like this.”

It took a moment for his brain to catch up. She watched him the whole time, eyes so wide and worried.

He understood. They’d never worked together while…being whatever they were now.

“I just…” She shifted slightly beneath him, eyes flicking away, over his shoulder. “Nyt already has it in his head that you’re the great hunter, and I don’t—I don’t want to be seen as just your…woman.”

He hummed. Of course, he understood that. Calanthe had a professional reputation to protect. As a monster hunter, she was only as good as her last job, as the saying went—and if it somehow became accepted that she only did well because someone else was hunting with her, only because the man she was fucking felt a need to protect her, well…that would put an end to more of her higher-paying commissions. He’d been hunting monsters nearly twice as long as she had, but she’d worked like hell to garner a reputation just as formidable as his. He didn’t want her to lose it, any more than she did.

What he wanted to say was: _I don’t want that for you, either. I love you and I only want what’s best for you. I’ll gladly make any sacrifice you need, just please promise me this is only a temporary thing, because the idea of never being like this with you again—it is the earth without the sun, the ocean without the moon. I cannot live without hope, without you. I can live off the smallest pieces, the tiniest moments we share—but I cannot live without you completely._

What he said was: “Makes sense.”

He felt her ease beneath him. As if perhaps she’d feared his reaction to her request. He dipped his head forward, kissing the space between her brows that had been previously lined with anxiety.

“Could be a long commission, though,” he pointed out, voice going even lower. “So perhaps we’d better take as much as we can tonight.”

She hummed at that, her hands coming up to slip around his neck and pull him in for a proper kiss. She brought her knees up, wrapping her legs around him and bringing him closer.

_This could be it,_ he thought. _The beginning of the end._

Again, he tried not to think of it, as their bodies found each other, found rhythm. But he couldn’t help himself. She was glowing— _actually_ nearly glowing, her skin sheening with sweat as her body flushed with heat, her eyes shining as she watched him. Her hands kept flitting, to his shoulders, his neck, his hair, his face, and her mouth slowly fell open in a soft look of wonder.

That look was very nearly the death of him. He wondered if he’d ever see it again. Was this it, the ending Vanielle had seen? Would this small separation between them cause a larger one, later on?

Calanthe shifted slightly beneath him, pulling her knees into her chest and widening her thighs even more. He pushed in deeper, the shift in position feeling even tighter and overwhelmingly perfect. Calanthe's hands came up, bracing against the headboard and pushing her hips further into his, and she stayed—she simply stayed and let him take what he needed, with the kind of breathless adoration in her face that made his heart skip and stutter.

He’d die, if he never saw her like this again. That much he knew, as surely as he knew his own name. He loved her and he didn’t want to ever be without her, without this, without the trust and vulnerability she gave him, in moments like this.

She was staring at him now. He felt a wave of concern—gods above, she was beginning to understand. His love-sickness was probably as clear as day.

_This_ would be the end, he thought. He’d make his feelings too plain, make her too uncomfortable, and she’d cut him off, cut him out of her life completely. Leave him a burning wreck, like the villages that had disrespected her, without a backwards glance.

_She brings destruction_. He knew that, had always known that.

But his mind was long made up. He’d follow her, follow chaos and its creator, for as long as she would let him.

She reached up with a small, desperate noise pulling him in for a kiss, her teeth crashing into his with a light flash of pain. He tasted blood.

Still, he savored it. The sounds she made, the electric feel of her tongue sliding further into his mouth, the tightening of her entire body around his as she arched up to meet him.

If this was going to be the end of them, he'd savor every moment. He'd stay by her side, til the bloody last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I always do a bit of "mental casting" for OCs. For Zagradd Nyt, I pictured Søren Malling.


	4. A Promise Made

Calanthe half-tumbled out of sleep, grimacing slightly. Even with all the alcohol and the thoroughly exhausting activities with Eist afterwards, she still slept as lightly as ever. She waited a few beats, finally determining what had awakened her—downstairs, the tavern master was clearing out the last of the drunks, and a few weren’t too happy…and a few were _too_ happy, boisterous and calling out to each other joyfully as they headed down the street which ran right under the window of her rented room.

Either way, no danger. She rolled onto her side and back into Eist. His bare skin felt delicious next to hers, cool and soothing. She wrapped her arm around his torso, hooked her leg over his, nuzzled into his shoulder and took a long, shallow inhale of contentment.

He made a little noise in response, still utterly dead to the world. Her heart clenched. The feeling was so overwhelming that she wanted to bite him, to eat him up, to swallow him whole. With quiet, careful eyes, she studied his profile in the darkness, the first soft grey of morning giving just enough light to outline his features.

She was spending too much time around him. A laughable statement, considering they only saw each other a few times per year. But it had to be true. His mother’s blood was working far too easily on her, and she found herself thinking of him, even when they were apart. Found herself thinking of this—moments like this, quiet and soft and not wrapped up in some physical urge—far too often.

It wasn’t always like this. Even after they started fucking around for fun. She wasn’t sure how or why the change happened, but it did, and she wasn’t particularly a fan.

It was embarrassing. Fawning over a half-siren, knowing damn well that it was just a trick, a thing in his nature designed to keep him alive—and worse still, knowing that if she didn’t keep herself in check, she’d look like every other ridiculous fool who was so easily overpowered by his charms. She was a monster hunter, for gods’ sakes, more aware and therefore supposedly more immune.

Except she wasn’t. Last night, she’d been flat on her back, arms over her head in absolute surrender as he’d pushed between her thighs—and she could _feel_ it, could feel the fact that she was simply _staring_ at him, mouth slack-jawed like some bewildered doe-eyed maid, completely overwhelmed, completely helpless and completely useless.

And he’d noticed. She closed her eyes lightly at the thought. That was perhaps the worst part—not her reactions, but the fact that he was becoming more aware of them. Last night, he’d had gotten this adorably quizzical expression when he’d noticed her staring (he didn’t realize, not truly, not yet, he didn’t know what it meant, how much she’d begun to devolve—and for that, she was grateful). The fear of revelation had been enough to push her into action. She’d pulled him into a kiss and distracted him thoroughly. He’d certainly been too exhausted afterwards to ask about it—she hoped that he didn’t actually remember it at all.

Before, things had been mutual. Even. He pulled at her, she pulled at him. It was their natures, an interesting balance between fire and water. But now…things were becoming uneven, unbalanced. She was more easily affected, she felt more deeply—and as soon as he knew, as soon as he noticed, he would retreat.

In a way, the thought made her grateful. Some men, some people, would see that power and use it to the fullest extent against her (and oh, how some had). But not Eist, she knew. Hell, even last night, even after they’d agreed how things would end for the evening, he’d still waited for her to give some kind of sign, waited for her to kiss him first, to push him up against the closed door of her room and declare that they should definitely celebrate their latest commission.

And in a way, it made her scared. Because if he did realize, he certainly would try to retreat, to give her space, to not…further worsen whatever spell she’d fallen under. She wasn’t sure she could handle that. The idea of being seen as… _less-than_ , in his eyes, of being pitied and avoided, in some way.

She wouldn’t let that happen, she decided. She’d just try harder, be more careful.

Interesting idea, seeing as they were about to spend gods-only-knew-how-long together, with this new commission. They hadn’t actually worked a hunt together in years—certainly not since taking up this new facet of their relationship. They’d be together almost every minute of every day, for days on end.

She bowed her head lightly at the thought. There was no way this wouldn’t end badly. He was going to realize, going to pity her, and it was going to be ruined.

_It was bound to happen_ , her inner voice pointed out stoically. She gave a small sigh of agreement. Their little arrangement—an arrangement made without any actual discussion at all—had been far too good to be true. There was always a catch; she should count herself lucky that it took this long to appear.

Eist shifted again, making another sound, low in the back of his throat. He was waking—both a blessing and a curse. Calanthe crammed all the messy feelings and uncertainties back into the corner of her heart and focused solely on enjoying the present moment—or more aptly, the man lying beside her in the present moment. She nuzzled back into him, giving the curve of his shoulder a light nip.

“Gods above, you’re practically boiling,” he murmured, still not opening his eyes. She pulled away slightly—she was used to the heat of her own skin, naturally, and sometimes she forgot. His arm wrapped around her waist, bringing her back into him as he wryly pointed out, “I didn’t say that was a bad thing.”

She grinned at that, at the way he shifted and kept his left arm fully wrapped around her and let his right hand slowly wander over her body—he still hadn’t opened his eyes, but the sleepy delighted smile on his face was enough to make her lungs tighten with affection.

He pulled at her hip, guiding her to lay on top of his chest completely before shifting her entire body further up and burying his face in the curve of her neck. His fingertips flexed happily into her flesh and she felt the slight pull of air against her skin as he gratefully inhaled.

He could feel her body grow even warmer at that—and his low chuckle of smug delight informed her that he was well-aware of its meaning.

“Shut up,” she chided, far too gentle and amused to hold any actual weight. She dipped her head lower, let her teeth nip at his ear.

“I didn’t say a word.”

“Not out loud. But I can practically hear your thoughts.”

“Oh? And what are they saying?” His arms wrapped tighter around her midsection, pressing her body more firmly into his as his mouth mapped out the line of her collarbone.

“Things no lady would ever dare repeat.” She closed her eyes, savored the feel of his body against hers, the touch of his lips on her skin, the rise of his chest beneath her own.

“Then it is rather fortunate that you, my dear, have never been a lady.”

She laughed at that. If only he knew. Still, she took a beat to nuzzle against his jaw before quietly whispering, “Shall I tell you what I hear?”

He merely hummed, his mouth far too occupied.

Eist had to admit, she truly was a mind reader. Because every single thing she whispered in his ear was exactly what he wanted to do, right down to the letter.

And more importantly, it was exactly what he did do, right down to the letter.

* * *

Eist thanked the stable hand as he took the reins and led his horse out to the yard. Calanthe was still settling up with the tavern master, and then they would meet Zagradd Nyt at the eastern gate.

A movement caught his eye—Vanielle, checking the tack on her on horse, obviously about to depart as well.

He walked over to the hitching post, wrapping his reins around it and offering a small smile and nod. “Good morn.”

She nodded as well. “Morning it is. _Good_ remains to be seen.”

He smiled at that. “Headed back to Brugge?”

She hummed, taking a beat to adjust the stirrup strap on her saddle. “I came here to warn you; I have no other reason to stay.”

Eist felt a slight wave of chagrin. Brugge was an easy ride, but still—she had made a genuine effort on his behalf.

That realization did nothing to quell the building unease in his stomach. And it only solidified his determination to go, to do what he could to shield Calanthe from whatever may come.

“I am grateful,” he said quietly.

“But still committed,” she surmised, with a small, wry smile.

He held out his hands in a slight shrug of helplessness. “I think…this is a choice that I cannot avoid. This is…an ever-fixed mark, I'm afraid.”

_I love her_ , he meant. _I can’t not. I can’t sway myself from this, even if it means the end of something deep, perhaps even the end of myself. Because if there’s even the slightest chance that she might come to harm, and even the slightest chance that I can save her from it, then I must go._

Maybe she understood the meaning. For some reason, her smile softened.

She held out her hands. “Let me read your palm, Hound. Perhaps some assurance can be found.”

He removed his leather glove and presented his left hand to her. It seemed the least he could do to bring her some measure of peace, and perhaps he was a bit curious (and yes, forever a bit hopeful that maybe, there could be some good, some reassurance found among the anxious uncertainty).

“Your fate and your destiny are siblings, but not twins,” she explained quietly, studying his palm. “Fate is what you _will_ be, no matter what. Destiny is what you are _meant_ to be, if you allow yourself to accept it and make the appropriate choices. One is immutable and the other is…changed through our choices. Fate is the water itself; destiny is the path it takes. If you block it off, it will merely find a different path to reach its destination. Or it will rise to flood the block—either way, the water will have its say, even if it is slightly more…amenable to how it is said.”

He hummed, somewhat understanding. He didn’t really believe in either, truth be told. Life was sheer chaos, one simply had to try making the best of it. A bit like the sea—you weathered the storm, you learned to predict the tides and the winds, but you never controlled it. It never even controlled itself.

Still, if the idea eased the fear surrounding the poor little sphinx, what harm could it do?

Her fingertip traced a line across his palm. “Interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“The story of your life—both what has come to pass and what has not yet been—is this: you will know deep love, and deep loss. You will be abandoned and found again. You will know the love of a mother’s heart, both conditional and unconditional. You will know the love of a thousand suns, and the fear of a single moon. And, oh….”

“Oh?” That didn’t sound good.

Her frown deepened. “I am sorry that I tried to dissuade you.”

Now his confusion and curiosity grew. Vanielle merely looked up at him, offering no more—and as he opened his mouth to speak, another voice reached his ears.

“Ready?”

He turned to see Calanthe, double-headed ax slung over her shoulder and hip popped out to one side, looking as swaggeringly nonchalant as ever. However, there was a wariness in her eyes and a tension in her shoulders as she simply watched the scene in front of her.

She almost seemed…jealous.

“Aye,” he returned quietly. He glanced back at Vanielle—suddenly realizing that his hand was still clasped between her two.

“Be well,” the Bruggian said simply, giving his hand a squeeze before releasing it. Still, there was fear lining her dark eyes. Fear and…sorrow.

He nodded, pushed past the tightness in his throat, and wished her a pleasant journey as well.

By the time he mounted his horse, Calanthe was riding hers straight out of the stable, ax now firmly strapped to her back and a flat expression veiling her hooded eyes.

“What'd the weirdo want?” She asked, letting her horse sidle closer to his.

“Nothing in particular,” he returned. “And she’s not a weirdo.”

“Ah,” said Calanthe. “So you fucked her.”

Eist actually wished it were that simple.

“What was _that_ like?” Calanthe wondered idly, craning her neck to look back at Vanielle, who was still going over her tack as they rode away.

Eist flicked his gaze heavenward. She really could be the most scathing thing, with just a few words and a certain tone.

Still, the woman would not be deterred by silence. “I didn’t realize the whole doe-eyed and scatter-brained thing was something you looked for in a conquest.”

“Didn’t you?” Eist returned, not feeling nearly as irritated as he should at her dismissive pettiness. If anything, slightly-pissed Cal was a fun playmate. Heaven help him, he couldn’t stop himself. “After all, technically _you’re_ one of my conquests, too.”

She laughed at that, loud and sharp. She turned in her saddle and fixed him with a piercing stare and a slow burning arch of her brow, challenging him with every ounce of her being. Her voice, however, remained a soft as velvet, an absolute purr. “In the eleven years we have known each other, name a _single_ moment in which you _genuinely_ thought I was ever even _close_ to being conquered.”

He merely grinned, knowing full-well that he couldn’t fulfill such a request.

Fuck, Calanthe thought, watching his dancing eyes and his little lopsided smile. If only he knew—she was already long conquered, she thought, completely fallen to this man and all his quiet charms.

Still, she shook her head with a slight scoff and a heavenward flick of her eyes. “A sphinx _and_ a Bruggian. My, how the mighty have fallen.”

The last bit was given with a breezy, nonchalant air as she urged her horse into a trot, leaving him behind. Eist found himself smiling—why yes, she actually _was_ jealous, miracle of all miracles.

“Xenophobe,” he called after her, unable to entirely remove the delight from his tone. Calanthe was _jealous_. Over him. It was a lovely thought. Of course, he knew that she enjoyed him, that she wanted him—but the idea that she wanted him solely for herself, well…that was rather nice.

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” she shot back, not even glancing over her shoulder. Still, she slowed her horse into a walk again, and he easily closed the distance between them.

“I have never slept with Vanielle,” he informed her. “And she isn’t weird, or scatter-brained—a bit doe-eyed, I’ll give you that, but careful of your glass tower there, princess.”

She looked at him in absolute shock and outrage. It made him laugh—because her expression only highlighted the doe-like qualities of her big brown eyes.

“Slander,” she proclaimed.

“Truth,” he returned.

She took a beat to simply look at him. Then, with the air of an affronted cat who has decided upon simply ignoring the villain who insulted it, she turned her focus to the street ahead with a prim little shrug of her shoulder.

Eist’s cheeks twinged from smiling so deeply. Still, he knew better than to push his luck. They fell into companionable silence until the eastern gate, where they met Zagradd Nyt. The three rode out of the city, towards the north.

Wisely, they chose to ride around Brokilon Forest, rather than through it. They hardly stopped—Zagradd was intent on reaching Kovir as quickly as possible, and Eist could understand his rush. By the time they arrived, Zagradd would have been gone for nearly a month.

A lot can happen in a month.

Not for the first time, Eist mulled over Vanielle’s words. The fate she’d seen upon his palm—some of it had definitely already come to pass, but his heart wondered at the things that hadn’t.

_The love of a thousand suns_. His gaze instinctively went to Calanthe, riding slightly ahead of him. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but still, a lovely thought. If he were ever lucky enough to be loved by her, he imagined it would be just as powerful, just as overwhelming as the woman herself.

She didn’t love him. At least, not like that. She loved what he did for her, what he did to her and with her—that much he knew for certain. And she definitely had some measure of friendly affection for him, perhaps even a bit more than the few others whom she considered friends, in her own way.

But she didn’t love him. And that was alright. He’d never expected it, nor truly sought it. Some of it was a curse from his mother, he thought. Sirens were incapable of true love, were they not? They weren’t built for it. By that same turn, they couldn’t receive it, either—or at least that was how it seemed, from all the research he’d done in his youth, when he’d still been so desperate for answers. And some of it was…also from his mother—not a curse of genetics, but rather conditioning.

His own mother, the one who should have loved him above all others, had not been moved to stay, to love him deeply enough to stay. How could he expect anything more, from anyone else? Least of all a dragon’s daughter, a thing built for fire and chaos, a thing not suited for water and soothing depths.

He was lucky that they had what they had now. He could love her, quietly and in small measures—as long as she always returned, eventually, as long as she let him pour his affection over her, even in the briefest of moments.

Again, he wondered if that was coming to an end, soon. Wondered if this morning was the last time he’d feel her body curling into his, feel the way her mouth smiled as she placed kisses across his chest, feel the way she shook with silent laughter as he made some quip, the quiet joy radiating off her skin just as palpably as the actual heat.

Speaking of heat—it was summer and as usual, Calanthe was not enjoying it. The midday sun was truly beginning to beat down on them, and Eist could only imagine how much worse it was for her. She was pouring some water from her flask onto a thin rag and placing it around her neck. Even with her back turned to him, he could so clearly picture her exact expression, the grimace of distaste and discomfort.

“Thank the gods we’re heading north,” she proclaimed, to no one in particular. Eist merely hummed in agreement, not certain that she actually heard him. Still, she turned in her saddle to ever-so-innocently enquire, “How’s Brugge, this time of year?”

She really was not ready to give up on that. Eist rolled his eyes, more because he knew it amused her than because it actually irritated him.

“I wouldn’t know. I have never visited.”

“Not even…a slight detour through, just around the borders?” She was so patently false in her naivete, in her wide-eyed, breathily-innocent tone. He held back a laugh.

“Never even a thought upon my mind,” he returned. Then, with a grin, he added, “Cintra, though. It’s quite lovely. The kind of climate that stays upon one’s mind at all times.”

She grinned at that, wickedly and deeply.

“Cintra?” Zagradd Nyt piped up, from the front of the line. “Is that not where your accent is from, Lioness?”

Calanthe flicked her gaze heavenward, her lip curling and nose snarling, as if she’d rather bite the man than answer him.

She really was a brat, Eist thought affectionately. A petulant, petty brat.

“It is,” she returned, her tone as pleasant and civil as it could ever be. Still, she stayed firmly turned around in her saddle, fixing Eist with a flat, baleful look _: thanks, Hound, now I have to actually engage in conversation with the man._

Eist merely shrugged, holding his hands up in a helpless gesture.

“I hear it is a lovely country.” Zagradd was thankfully oblivious. “Lots of fruit trees, no?”

Calanthe narrowed her gaze at Eist. _Fruit trees. Now you’ve got me talking about fucking fruit trees._

She’d kill him with her bare hands, if she could, he knew. He couldn’t help but grin.

Calanthe tamped down her own smile and retained her beleaguered air. Granted, if she had to choose, she’d rather spend the day solely in Eist’s company, but the Koviri wasn’t actually that bad. It was just…she was having a lovely flirty moment with Eist, and she would have preferred it to stay that way.

And perhaps, some of her irritation was feigned simply because…it made Eist smile. For whatever reason, he found amusement in watching her snap and hiss at the rest of the world, and she liked making him smile.

With one last burning glance at the man grinning unrepentantly at her, she turned back in the saddle to answer the Koviri, “Yes. Lots of fruit trees. And summers so hot, you’d murder your own mother for a mild breeze.”

Zagradd laughed at that. “You are droll, Lioness. You will do well among my people.”

Eist’s stomach coiled as Vanielle’s warning came back to him: _You will be driven from the village and called a monster by the very ones you try to save._

Gods above, he fucking hated this. If this was how Vanielle spent her life, constantly recalling things that had not yet come to pass, knowing far too much to be able to simply enjoy a mundane conversation—he wasn’t sure how she hadn’t thrown herself from the nearest cliff. It was maddening.

Maybe that explained her oddness. Either way, he wanted no part of it.

He wouldn’t think any more on her words, he decided. He’d push them from his mind. He’d simply enjoy whatever time they had left, however he could.

“Do your people like to drink?” Calanthe asked.

“Ja, most certainly. In the winter, it is the only thing we can do. Well, _one_ of the only things we can do.”

“Then, yes, I will do quite well among your people,” she agreed with a grin in her voice. Zagradd laughed softly at that.

Eist urged his horse forward, just enough to come up even with Calanthe. She looked over at him, frowning slightly in confusion.

“It’s boring, being at the back,” he offered, in way of explanation.

She arched her brow at that. “You’ve never complained about being behind before.”

He ducked his head lightly at the innuendo. “That’s a little different.”

She made a show of glancing over her own shoulder. “Can’t imagine the view’s much different.”

“The reward is, though.”

She hummed. Then with a slight shrug, she decided, “Well, I suppose I should be grateful you wish to see my face. Otherwise I imagine it’s far easier to get me mixed up with a dark-haired sphinx—”

“Ye gods, woman—”

“Then what on earth could she possibly want with you?” She turned to look at him fully, her dark eyes suddenly sharp and keenly focused.

Eist got the feeling that he’d fallen into a trap. There was something wary in Calanthe’s gaze, something worried.

She knew. Well, she didn’t _know_ , but she had to sense it, in some way.

“We’re friends, of a sort.” That wasn’t a lie, not entirely. Still, Eist was outright lying about her reason for reaching out. “She’s just…a little odd in expressing her friendship. We were merely catching up.”

Calanthe turned her gaze back to the road ahead. That was as close to an actual acceptance as he was going to get, he knew.

Calanthe tightened her grip on the reins and put all of her focus on keeping her expression as neutral and unreadable as possible. Eist Tuirseach had just lied to her. She wasn’t entirely sure how, or about exactly which part—but she knew he was lying, and she was rather certain he’d never done that to her before.

He’d never not shared his exploits with her. Never been anything less than honest about the people who’d fallen into his bed. So if he was lying about the Bruggian not being a lover—why would he feel the need to lie about such a thing?

Unless the Bruggian was different, somehow. The thought made her stomach clench unpleasantly. Calanthe had never thought herself special among Eist’s long list of lovers—but the idea that someone else was…that truly didn’t sit well.

She didn’t feel jealous, she realized. She felt…hurt. Felt the almost-prick of tears, dancing behind her eyes.

“Well.” She took a slight breath to steady herself. “Once this job is over, you can spend as much time _catching up_ with her as you like.”

Eist merely stared at the woman. She truly had this thing between her teeth—and he truly wasn’t sure why. Her jealousy had been almost amusing when it had simply made her disdainful and snappish, but now she seemed genuinely upset and that was a feeling he never wanted to inspire in her.

He’d gladly reassure her—tell her that she had no reason to feel this way, no reason to doubt his feelings towards her and only her—if only it were something she actually wanted to hear, something that wouldn’t upset her further.

But before he could find the words—or any words at all, really—she was clicking her tongue, urging her horse to move forward, even with Zagradd. She began asking him questions about Kovir, a sure sign of just how desperate she was to end her current line of conversation with Eist.

Eist merely hung back, his mind still trying to make sense of the woman and her confounding swings of mood.

Despite his decision to ignore Vanielle’s warning, he couldn’t help wondering if this truly was the beginning of an end between them. _The end of you_. Perhaps the end of himself in Calanthe’s eyes? The end of whatever version of him that she’d allowed to get this close, whatever version she’d seen in such a warm and welcoming light?

Nope, he decided. Not something as silly and inconsequential as this. He’d wait until the right moment, but he’d make this right.

After all, Vanielle had said that whatever destiny she saw, it could be altered based on the choices he made, right? Well, he chose to set the record straight, as soon as he could. Divert the water’s path, or what-the-fuck-ever metaphor she’d given.

_As soon as he could_ turned out to be at dusk, when they finally camped for the evening. Calanthe had eventually stopped ignoring him, and the last few hours of their journey had been relatively pleasant. They’d decided to set up camp in the woods, and had chosen a site close to a stream. Zagradd had offered to try fishing for their supper, in an effort to save what supplies they had, and Eist had readily agreed, glad at the thought of having a moment alone with Calanthe.

She was currently walking in small, aimless circles, rubbing her small of her back. Eist literally felt her pain—riding all day wasn’t getting any easier on the body, with each passing year.

Eist glanced over his shoulder, making sure Zagradd was fully gone before moving closer, holding up his hand to lightly stop her pacing as he softly spoke. “About…before. I just need this to be clear between us: I have no intention nor any desire to catch up with Vanielle, once this over—or ever, really. At least not in the way that you meant.”

She looked up at him, eyes wide with surprise. Whether she was surprised at his declaration or at the fact that he’d brought up a conversation from hours ago, he wasn’t entirely sure.

He let his hand move closer, finally actually resting on her stomach. “I’d prefer to spend the time catching up with you.”

“Why?” She blinked up at him again, and Eist felt a ripple of shock. As if such a question ever needed to be asked, he thought numbly. She wasn’t being coy—she genuinely seemed confused.

“Because,” he said simply, trying to find the words—the words that would be truthful but perhaps not too truthful. “We’re going to spend gods-only-know how long together, without being able to…catch up. And I would think that after all that time, we’ll have a lot to say.”

She made a small noise of agreement at that. Then she dipped her head slightly, shifting a half-step closer to him.

“Actually, I meant _why are you bringing it up again_ ,” she admitted gently. Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “I could understand why you’d want to spend some time together afterwards, easily enough.”

She finally found the courage to glance up again, to see those blue eyes smiling slightly at her. He was so close—all she’d have to do is tilt her chin up, roll up on her toes just a bit, and she could kiss him, easy as anything.

But that wasn’t what this was. This was fire and fucking, nothing more, nothing less. Little kisses and soft conversations weren’t a part of that.

His brows quirked in concern. “Because it seemed to bother you. And…I didn’t want you to be bothered.”

Her chest tightened at the confession. At the sheer honesty she saw shining in those beautiful blue eyes—a complete juxtaposition to the sensation of dishonesty she’d felt earlier.

“What are you hiding from me?” She asked, half-afraid of the answer.

She watched his expression ripple and shift, weighing whether or not to give her the truth.

_Please_ , her heart prayed, _don’t lie to me again. There are so many things I can take, but the idea that you can’t trust me with the truth will be too much. Please don’t make me less-than._

A hunter in all things, Eist mused. She’d caught the scent of his lie and she couldn’t let it go until she had it fully snared. He should have known it would all come out like this.

“Vanielle had a warning for me,” he admitted. “About going north.”

“What was her warning?” Calanthe shifted closer still.

“She told me not to go.”

“And yet here you are.”

“And yet here I am.”

“I think it’s rather clear that I do not hold much with the little strangeling—but if a sphinx tells you not to fucking do something, Eist, that’s usually a pretty clear sign of something you should absolutely not do.”

“Maybe,” he returned easily. “But you were going and I had already told you that I was coming along, too.”

She shouldn’t feel a flutter in her chest at the soft confession, but something in his tone made her react anyways. It was…affectionate, lined with something almost nostalgic, almost sad.

_This isn’t who we are_ , she thought numbly. And yet, here they were. Being exactly this.

“Besides.” His tone was turning far warmer, edged with teasing. “At the time, we hadn’t agreed to the whole no-sex-during-the-job thing yet. So I was looking at an entire month or more of having you in my bed, every night. Only an absolute fool would turn down such a chance.”

She huffed softly at that. He was deflecting, turning the moment into something lighter and more humorous. She’d let him, only because she knew that he wasn’t lying to her anymore. There was no secret deep love connection with the Bruggian, no chance of losing him ( _losing him_ , as if he were ever truly hers to begin with, what a laugh).

“Well, that plan backfired on you, didn’t it?” She grinned, pushing just a little more into his hand, still at her stomach. He was trying to get them back to where they were supposed to be; she’d help him.

“You remain as delightfully unpredictable as always,” he conceded. His chest was tightening—her gaze was locked onto his mouth with a lazy warmth, and it wasn’t hard to guess her thoughts at the moment. Still, he felt the need to add, “And bed partner or no, I still would have gladly leapt at the chance to hunt by your side again. We truly do make a good team.”

“We do, don’t we?” Her voice was soft, a bit warm with amused agreement. Her hand came up to lightly rest on his chest, over his heart. Then the corner of her mouth hooked upwards into a familiar lopsided grin. “And don’t worry—I’ll keep you safe from all the big bad monsters.”

She was actually quite adorable, when she was being patronizing. Eist put his hand over hers, still covering his heart. “Promise?”

“Of course,” she returned simply, without a beat of hesitation. “After all, I need you alive. I do plan on quite a lot of catching up between us, once all is said and done.”

“Promise?”

She let her fingertips press further into his shirt, pulling him down so that her mouth was hovering over his. “Promise.”

Well, destiny was a good as fucked, he thought as she sealed her promise with a kiss. He had yet to see a single thing that could withstand Calanthe, once she put her mind to something. She hummed warmly, tugging at his shirt a little more—he understood the unspoken command and shifted, bringing his hands to her hips and pulling their bodies closer together. It didn’t matter what darkness Vanielle had seen—if destiny was swayed by choice, and Calanthe had chosen to make sure he survived, then all was well.

It had to be. There was no other choice.

Eist was far too soft, too gentle again, but this time, Calanthe didn’t try to push him into something fiercer. Nothing could really happen beyond what was already happening, anyways. There wasn’t anything wrong with simply savoring him, savoring the moment.

He hadn’t told her exactly everything, she knew. But he wasn’t lying anymore. That was enough. She didn’t have the right to demand everything, didn’t have the right to know all the details of his life. Eventually, she withdrew from the kiss, still keeping her body close to his. His hands came up, cupping her face, thumbs ghosting over the apples of her cheeks. She closed her eyes and simply let him.

“Now stop being petty about the Bruggian,” he murmured, his voice still lined with amused affection. “She really is a good soul, and completely undeserving of the disdain you’ve heaped upon her.”

She smirked, “It’s not like she was around to hear it.”

“Not the point.”

“It’s not like you didn’t like the thought of me being jealous, either,” she added, opening her eyes to meet his.

“Also not the point.” He let his thumbs stroke over her cheeks one last time, his expression shifting with slight curiosity. Every light touch pulled an entire wave through her lungs. She could allow this gentleness, she decided—it had the same effect upon her body as his more passionate touches, after all. It really wasn’t any different. Just a tease, not a token of love. She was just misinterpreting it, because of her own feelings. He didn’t _mean_ it that way.

“So you’re not denying it,” she noted, arching a brow.

“And you’re not denying that you actually were jealous,” he returned gently. Calanthe blinked at that, as if both surprised and affronted by the truth.

“It’s in my nature,” she said simply. “I see shiny things and I like…to keep them. Dragons aren’t very good at sharing.”

“Dragons can still keep a civil tongue in their heads,” he reminded her.

“If given the proper incentive,” she pointed out. She leaned in, just a fraction, just enough to signal her meaning (as if he ever doubted).

He huffed at that, shaking his head softly. He pulled her face in for another kiss and she hummed in approval, the sound warming him almost as deeply as the flush of her skin beneath his palms. Her hands came to his wrists, tightening briefly, and he understood, slowly pulling back.

“She is strange, you can’t deny it.”

“Oh, no question of it. But no need to be cruel.”

With a sigh, she slipped further out of his grasp. “If it will ease your bleeding heart—”

“It would, thank you—”

“Again, I’m not doing this for your gratitude, Hound. I’d just rather not have to endure your whinging.”

He grinned at that. She stretched her arms over her head and began slowly walking away. He raised his voice to follow her, “Either way I’m still grateful.”

Her tone was dripping with sarcasm, “Oh, how my tender maiden heart doth sing to hear it, good sir.”

He laughed, shaking his head as he went back to setting up camp for the night. Eventually, once she’d stretched her muscles enough to ease the stiffness, Calanthe came to help. Zagradd returned with fish for dinner, and it was a surprisingly pleasant evening. Calanthe made good on her promise and was beyond civil. She was absolutely charming, without any use of her dragon’s blood whatsoever.

She even offered to take first watch. No one argued with her, and soon Eist was slowly blinking asleep, his last waking image her seated in front of the fire. She glanced over at him, offering a small smile.

She still looked terrified, he noted dazedly, already tumbling into sleep before he could truly process the thought. Just like she did, right before the striga attacked—aware of what was coming and helpless to stop it.

* * *

Calanthe scanned the darkness outside the rim of firelight before turning her attention fully to Eist. He looked peaceful, completely unburdened as he slept.

Bastard, she thought warmly. He always could sleep anywhere, as easily as a baby. How she envied it.

That was part of the reason she volunteered for first watch. She certainly wouldn’t be able to sleep for many hours hence, might as well put it to good use. By the time she did settle in, she’d be so exhausted that her mind wouldn’t be able to do anything but let sleep happen.

The other part was a little more…tangled. Indefinable.

That little Bruggian had seen something, something terrible enough to urge her to warn Eist. And Eist had ignored it—for her, in some way, or at least because of her.

Which meant she now _had_ to protect him against any possible consequences of such actions. She was honor-bound, in a way.

She’d said it in a joking tone, but her promise had been absolute truth: she’d protect him from the monsters. She’d keep him alive and safe, no matter the costs.

He might be an absolute idiot, defying the ill-tidings of a sphinx (yes, though she disdained them, she never doubted their abilities nor their prophecies), but he was, for all intents and purposes, her idiot now, entirely her responsibility in this endeavor.

She watched the firelight play across his sleeping face, her heart tightening with a now-familiar ache of affection.

She might have to take on destiny itself, but she’d do it, she decided. She’d keep him alive it if killed her.

She had, after all, made a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eist's phrase "an ever-fixed mark" is directly lifted from Shakespeare's Sonnet 116, which honestly, is such an Eist Tuirseach mood that I couldn't not make reference to it.


	5. My Little Otter Pup

**The North Shore, An Skellig.**

“Come, pup, come play!” Mother’s voice rang out, joyful and bright. Eist stood at the edge of the water, still uneasy. They’d walked Sibba to her new apprenticeship at the net weaver’s, and for the first time, it would be an entire day of just Eist and Mother, without Bran or Sibba or Father. They’d been walking by the brackish pool between home and the village when Mother had leapt in, still fully clothed.

She was still reaching for him, with a breathless smile. “Come on, my love.”

Her smile was brighter than it usually was, Eist thought. He wanted to do anything she asked, when she smiled like that—anything to make her look so beautiful and happy.

He waded further in. He was four whole years old now—he could swim in still waters quite easily. _My little otter pup,_ Mother often called him.

It was what she called him now, when he swam into her arms. She spun him around and kissed his cheeks. Then she held him close and floated on her back, just like the real otters in the bay.

They stayed for a long time. Until Eist’s tummy began to grumble, and Mother smiled and gently led him out of the water again.

By the time they got home, she was softer, a little bluer again. They redressed in dry clothes and Mother stared out wistfully at the sea as she laid their wet ones out to dry against the stone fence around the house.

Eist stared at his bowl, feeling a sudden wash of guilt. If he hadn’t been hungry, they would have stayed. Mother would still be happy and bright.

He didn’t want to eat. Didn’t want to let himself have something, when it meant taking something else away from Mother. But when he didn’t, Mother frowned softly and tilted her head to the side, and he felt guiltier still—to drag her away from the water and then not eat the food she’d made him, the very reason she was sad and soft again, it seemed worse still.

So he ate his lunch and blinked back tears, his little heart as tumultuous as a stormy sea.

Afterwards, Mother called him into her arms again and rocked him to sleep by the fire. It was just like being in the water again, laying against her chest, hearing her heart beat as they swayed as slowly as the rise and fall of the water.


	6. A Momentary Lapse

**Thirty Nine Years Later.**

**The Owl Hills (disputed land between Brugge and Brokilon Forest).**

Eist woke with the certainty that he’d dreamt, but with no recollection of his dream whatsoever—a few flashes, just enough to know he’d dreamt of his childhood, a rarer and rarer occurrence these days.

He wasn’t sure if it was a good dream or a bad one.

He glanced around the campsite, now lit in the dim grey light of dawn. 

Calanthe was missing. Zagradd, who was meant to be keeping the final watch, was asleep sitting up.

Eist quietly slipped out of his bedroll and headed for the river. If he could start the day with a swim, he’d feel entirely better, more at-ease.

He sensed Calanthe, just before he pushed through the trees and saw her. Her ax was resting against a larger rock, with her doublet, undershirt, and boots abandoned beside it, alongside the roll of linen she used to bind her breasts and a larger piece of linen for a towel of sorts. She was currently perched on a rock as well, busily dismantling the coiled collection of braids atop her head.

He took a moment to appreciate the sight of her bare torso, the movements of her shoulder blades as she unpinned another braid.

“Fucking lech,” she called out, just loud enough for him to hear but still soft enough to keep from waking Zagradd, even though camp was nearly fifty yards away through thick underbrush.

He huffed softly. Of course, she’d felt his presence, too—it was why he didn’t mind watching her like this, because if she’d wanted him to not look, she would have called out sooner and said as much.

She turned slightly, casting a wry glance over her deliciously bare shoulder. “Come make yourself useful, creep.”

He gladly obliged, moving closer and frowning slightly as he tried to make sense of the braids and choose which one to unpin next. “You should have washed your hair before we left Nostrag.”

“Where? In the tavern basin, hardly big enough to piss in?” She scoffed.

“You could have ordered a bath.”

“Yes, and it would have been boiling hot—not exactly what I’d prefer.”

He hummed, unable to argue with that.

“Besides.” Her voice was soft, lined with an almost-tease. “We both couldn’t have fit in a bath together.”

He grinned at the unspoken invitation.

Within minutes, he was undressing on the shore while she combed her fingers through the last of her braids, now fully undressed herself and slowly wading deeper in. Then she turned and, lifting her hands over head in a ridiculously theatrical pose, fell back into the water with a splash.

He laughed at the sight. This was the part he’d missed about hunting with Calanthe, having excuse to simply be around her, outside of a tavern or a bedchamber—she actually was quite playful, when she let her guard down.

She reappeared from underwater, grinning as well. “Oh, the water’s divine.”

“ _Divine_ to you is usually _cold as fuck_ to me,” he pointed out, even as he chucked the last of his clothes further ashore and began wading in.

“Come.” She reached out her arms to him. “I’ll keep you warm.”

His grin widened. With a deep breath, he dove beneath the water, still feeling a slight measure of shock to find that his prediction had been accurate. The water was just cold enough to bite.

He came up again, blinking the water from his eyes. Calanthe was a little farther downstream, in a slightly deeper section, swimming on her back and watching him with a lazily amused expression. Even under the haze of the water, he could see the way her legs shifted wider, the invitation unmistakable—both in her body and in her devilish grin: _Come play, Hound._

He gladly accepted the invitation, easily closing the distance between them with a few strokes. She shifted at his approach, reaching for him and wrapping her legs around his hips, pulling their chests flush against each other.

She was as good as her word—the heat of her own skin was enough to warm him, and suddenly, the water didn’t feel that cold at all.

“How long do you think we have before Nyt wakes up?” He asked, tone utterly nonchalant, utterly innocent and conversational.

Her grin deepened. “Long enough, if you make it quick.”

“And if I don’t make it quick?” He asked softly, dipping his head closer to hers. She hummed, nuzzling her nose against his.

“Still long enough,” she returned in a whisper, even though they were alone. She lightly nipped her mouth against his, neither a bite nor a kiss, but more of a playful punctuation to her point. He simply shifted against her lips in return, watching the way the corners of her eyes crinkled in amusement and delight. They kept slowly drifting through the water, almost-kissing but never quite, waiting for the other to break first and keeping their eyes locked onto each other’s throughout.

Calanthe was an absolute fucking idiot, she realized. She’d literally begged a half-siren to join her in the water. Not that Eist would ever drag her under—at least not physically. But emotionally? She was already drowning. He had one arm around her waist, the other hand stroking down the small of her back in a slow, tender motion that she echoed with her own fingertips on the back of his neck.

She’d just told herself that she was getting too close, letting things become too soft between them. She’d just decided to put more distance between them—and then what did she do, immediately afterwards? Brought him along on a weeks-long hunt, where she’d have no chance to recover from his charms. Then she’d told herself that they couldn’t be like this, during the hunt—and what had she done, this very morning? Dragged him into this moment with her, pulled him into her arms and let herself be so easily captured in his.

Even now, as her mind screamed at her for being so reckless and stupid, she kept brushing their noses together, watching his blue eyes and feeling his body react to hers. Knowing something was a bad decision and actually stopping herself from making it seemed to be two very different things, when it came to this man.

Case in point: she shifted up against him, placing a ghost of a kiss on the corner of his mouth. He turned his head slightly, catching more of her lips with his. But it was a chaste, holding kiss—still waiting, still trying to get her to break first, to deepen the touch. She watched him, feeling an odd bubble of laughter in her chest.

_I love you_ , the words barreled up her throat, which slammed shut with emotion.

Yes, she truly was an idiot. Eist was in his element and she was melting further under his spell—a spell he didn’t cast intentionally, but still cast, nonetheless.

With a reckless wave, suddenly all she wanted was to kiss him, to feel him pull her under the water, to keep touching him and never stop, until it all simply faded to black and floated away, until the only thing left was the feeling of his body holding hers, nothing more.

_Get out of the fucking water, now_ , her mind commanded. But it was a faint echo, half-lost in the blue eyes still locked onto hers.

Eist felt the added thickness to the air, and shifted back slightly—now he could see the faint waves of vapor, emanating off Calanthe’s shoulders, which were just above the water’s surface. He marveled at it, at her, letting his fingertips trace over the curve of her shoulder. The sun was slowly pulling into the world, filtering through the trees, and she looked brand-new, completely mythical, called up from some enchanted realm just to bless him with her smile.

She shivered slightly at the touch, and he hummed in approval. Then she leaned in again, nipping the side of his neck before unwrapping her legs from his hips and pushing their bodies further apart.

He felt a wave of confusion, and it must have been evident upon his face.

“I really need to wash my hair,” she offered simply, swimming a bit closer to shore, where the water was shallow enough for her to be able to touch without difficulty.

It was true, Calanthe reminded herself. And technically, they were already on this new job—the job during which they’d agreed to keep their relationship slightly less intimate. Zagradd was nearby, and she truly didn’t want him to catch them, didn’t want him to have the very idea in his head that had prompted her to make the no-sex rule in the first place.

That’s why she pulled away, she told herself. Not because she was afraid—afraid of herself, of just how much she would let herself go, just how far she would let Eist drag her under, if she didn’t stop. Not because she wasn’t highly aware that aside from her father’s blood, she had her mother’s nature to contend with—a nature prone to weakness and instability, two things she constantly sought to protect herself against. No, none of that. She was simply being professional, or at least practical.

Still, Eist’s little look of mild hurt and confusion pulled at her heart. She tamped down a flash of anger at her own actions, pressing her lips into a thin line and focusing on the task of rinsing her hair.

Eist watched her for a beat, simply trying to figure out what had just happened. She couldn’t still be upset over the thing with Vanielle—if she had been, she certainly would have said so. Which meant it was something else. Something deeper, something that made her hesitate and withdraw, instead of meeting him head-on about it.

_The end of you_. His mind echoed. No, this wouldn’t be it, either. So he took a slight breath and quietly asked, “Everything alright?”

“Of course.” Her tone was light, nonchalant, but she wasn’t looking at him. Granted, her hair was long and thick—he wasn’t sure how she wrangled it on her own, truth be told—and she was a bit distracted by running her fingers through it in the water, in between scrubs of her scalp and slight dips back into the water. “It’s just that…well, the agreement, for one thing. I’d rather not have the Koviri catch us. And aside from that, we have an entire day of riding ahead—I’d rather not be exhausted, at the very start.”

He grinned slightly at that—at the implication that she was incapable of taking him with anything less than the kind of ferocity and passion that drained all her energy (and truthfully, he’d never seen anything to contradict that statement yet, even after all this time).

“Valid point,” he conceded, gliding a bit closer to simply watch her. “But surely we can still…simply enjoy each other’s presence, even if it doesn’t lead to sex.”

“Did that for years, didn’t we?” She noted, before slipping her head under the water. She came back up, wiping water from her eyes and smoothing her hands over the top of her head. “I’m assuming your idea of enjoying each other’s presence is a little more…involved than before, though.”

“Only slightly,” he assured her. “And only if you want to.”

The corners of her mouth curled softly at that. Still, she wasn’t quite meeting his eye. “I’m not certain that’s the best idea, Hound. Since this began, when have we ever been able to…resist devolving?”

Another valid point. Still, that wasn’t even what he was asking, not really—making out and swimming naked together were certainly lovely things, but he’d meant…that he simply wanted to be able to touch her, from time to time. To hold her, in the tamest, chastest of ways. To just...kiss her. Just because. Without motive or destination.

She’d probably bite his hand off, if he ever reached for her in such a way. Besides, it wasn’t how they were anyways. It wasn't how Calanthe wanted them to be.

“Granted, I know it’s natural, given our…dispositions,” Calanthe added nonchalantly, twisting her hair into a single cord and winding it into a bun atop her head. Eist watched, mildly amazed that it stayed without any actual pins at all. “Fire and water, opposites attract, that sort of thing.”

Eist frowned slightly—he wasn’t quite sure he agreed. They were more alike than different in his opinion.

But more than anything, he felt a measure of unease at the idea that after all this time, Calanthe simply saw this thing between them as entirely biological, rather than emotional. An impulse, rather than a choice. She may not love him, but he’d always assumed that she was attracted to him, at least. That she was still acting entirely of her own free will.

They'd never actually talked about how this started, or why. But Eist had always assumed that they shared a mutual view of it. Incorrectly assumed, apparently.

“You think it’s all down to some weird cosmic balance?” He asked. “Just…elemental magnets at play?”

She shrugged. “We’re both creatures of charm, in our own ways. Seems rather natural that we also happen to charm each other.”

“Our _parents_ were creatures of charm. We're just…”

“Half-breed traitors?” She supplied helpfully.

Now it was his turn to shrug. “Depends on which half you ask, I suppose.”

“No,” Calanthe decreed with easy, utter certainty. She pushed off, swimming back to shore. “Humans see us exactly the same way. We're necessary evils to them. If all the monsters were gone tomorrow, they'd take to hunting us, without hesitation. Half-monster is still half too much monster.”

She rose out of the water, giving a careless flick of her wrists and holding her arms out slightly. Her head dipped forward and Eist knew, without even seeing her face, that her eyes were closed.

The vapors wafting off her skin seemed slightly thicker. Eist noted the flushed tinge to her body.

“Are you making yourself hotter on purpose?”

“Helps me dry more quickly,” she explained, turning back to him with a lopsided smile. “Neat trick, eh?”

“How’d you do it?” He was thoroughly intrigued. Until mere seconds ago, he'd always thought that Calanthe couldn’t control her body's temperature. He was having assumptions disproven left and right today.

Now her grin turned absolutely wicked. “It’s not a science, but I have found if I simply…think of certain things, it makes me run hot enough to do it.”

“Oh?” Eist feigned innocence. “What sort do things?”

“Memories, mostly,” she admitted. She was fully out of the water now, grabbing a thinly woven linen towel to pat the rest of her body dry. Eist merely enjoyed the show. “Would you like to know what I thought of just now?”

“Of course.”

She looked over with another wicked grin. “I thought about exactly what I'm gonna do to you, as soon as we have time to catch up.”

His look of soft, surprised delight made her laugh. It really was too easy, sometimes, she thought warmly. Didn’t make it any less enjoyable, though.

But her words weren’t entirely true. Years ago, when she’d first realized her powers, an even-more-powerful sorceress had helped her better understand them. Tissaia de Vries had taught her many things, over the years. And yes, she’d taught Calanthe how to slightly control her body’s temperature—but only like this, only in small doses for extremely short amounts of time, and only how to make it higher, not lower.

It was connected to her emotions, to the thoughts she had and how they registered in her body’s response.

But it wasn’t always thoughts of lust. More often than not, it was softer thoughts, things she truly loved, people she’d gladly kill and die for.

Just now, she’d simply thought of holding him closer, of kissing him and snuggling deeper into his body, of simply being affectionate, without any seductive intentions. She’d remembered his face, the morning before, when he’d still been blissfully asleep, the little creases around the corners of his closed eyes and the light glint of silver amongst the stubble on his jaw.

Absolutely no need for him to ever know _that_ , though. Let him think that nothing had changed between them, let him think her unendingly lecherous rather than soft and weak with adoration.

She sat on a rock and perhaps kept her knees a little wider than necessary to keep her balance (certainly wider than any lady ever should, she thought with a grin, imagining her childhood nursemaid’s reaction to such a pose), taking the roll of cloth and gingerly beginning to bind her breasts into place again. Even without glancing over, she could feel Eist’s rapt gaze, and her mouth curled into a small smile.

“You truly live up to your reputation for cruelty,” he informed her with mock seriousness. She chuckled softly in agreement.

“No one’s stopping you from taking care of yourself,” she pointed out nonchalantly. She cut a quick glance in his direction, smiling at the expression on his features. Sometimes it really was too easy to tease, to shock him with her audacity.

What? It was within the agreement, she decided. Besides, he didn’t have to follow her suggestion.

“Is that what you want?” His voice was quiet, but it traveled easily enough to her ears. Her entire body pricked at the soft tone, at the unmistakable invitation.

_Yes_ , her mind instantly answered. The idea of watching him, of simply being allowed to watch him, pushed a ripple of heat through her body. But the thought of commanding him, of making him do something entirely of her will rather than his own, made her stomach tighten uncomfortably. So she said, just as quietly, “I want you to…do whatever you need. If that’s what you want.”

She really was an absolute contradiction, Eist thought. She claimed their connection was entirely without choice, and yet here she sat, offering him a choice, refusing to take the control that she claimed she held over him, and vice versa.

The world seemed to slow. Nothing existed outside of the oddly hopeful and fearful expression on that beautiful face, outside of the beat of his own heart and the feeling of standing on some precipice, so close to tumbling into something new and untried. Calanthe was still winding the cloth around her chest, but her gaze never left him, and he felt both completely on display and entirely hidden from the rest of the world, held in a bubble by her eyes, shielded from all others.

Eist really was every inch a siren’s son, Calanthe thought numbly. He was standing there, his shoulders barely above the water, watching her with eyes that put the sea to shame. He’d merely have to say a word and she’d wade right back in, right back into him, let him take her, let him take her under completely and never bring her back up again, and she’d die absolutely content, so long as those eyes were the last thing she saw.

She saw the shift of his shoulder, knew exactly where his hand went underneath the water. She felt her pulse quicken and her body tighten as she shifted, still wrapping the cloth around her chest almost distractedly as she simply watched his face.

_He_ was supposed to be the siren, yet Eist felt completely overwhelmed by the woman sitting atop the rock, leaning forward to watch him with a raptly curious expression, dark eyes widening even further. She finished binding her breasts and simply continued watching him.

He found himself helpless to do anything but exactly what she wanted. He continued stroking his cock under the water, feeling a rising flush of warmth at the sight of her skin growing redder in response, the soft opening of her mouth as her thighs shifted wider too, as he saw just how deeply he was affecting her, even with most of his body hidden beneath the water.

Calanthe couldn’t hear anything over the pulse thundering in her ears, every fiber of her body screaming to wade back into the water and join him, to help him finish what he’d started—her fingernails, digging into the unforgiving rock beneath her, were the only thing keeping her anchored.

He was so beautiful, so obedient and shining and desperate to please and so much more than anything she could have ever dreamed up, even in her most wicked imaginings. The binding around her chest suddenly felt too tight—she couldn’t breathe, she was drowning on dry land, simply watching his face as he came closer to the edge. Her cunt was so tight with want that it actually _ached_ , and she was rather certain that she was on the verge of panting, and no one had so much as touched her body.

She should touch herself. Do something to ease the screaming tension. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t do anything but simply watch him. She wanted to beg, to tell him to let go, to do anything to make him finally come, but her throat was too tight to speak.

Eist was certain that if Calanthe leaned any further forward, she’d fall off the rock entirely. The thought only pushed the rising wave through his body higher—she was looking at him with the same soft wonder that she’d worn the night before last, and his heart couldn’t help stuttering under the weight of such a look. The tension thrumming through every line of her body matched exactly what he felt in his own, coiling and building to an almost overwhelming surge.

Then he was coming, feeling a secondary ripple of release at the hungry look in her dark eyes as she watched him, as her mouth opened even wider and her cheeks flushed with absolute desire at the sight of him falling apart.

Calanthe was still so tense that she felt she might rattle off her rocky perch entirely—but oh, the soft relief on Eist’s face was nearly enough to send her over the edge as well. The sheen on his skin, the dark curls sticking to his forehead, the flush in his face that only made his eyes seem even more searingly blue—every detail on its own was enough to affect her in some small way, but all together they were entirely overwhelming. 

More than anything, she just wanted...to brush the hair from his face, to kiss his forehead and hold him against her chest until his breathing returned to normal, soft and quiet and small. That terrified her more than any other desire could.

_He hasn’t even touched you_ , she thought, through the haze of lust. _You aren’t drowning—you’re long gone, so far sunk that no one shall ever find you now._

He was slowly recovering, shifting and focusing his gaze on her with a keener air.

All of her promises and rules went crumbling to the bottom of the sea. She couldn’t help herself. She opened her legs wider, leaning farther back and bracing her hands on the rock, practically crying with want.

Thank the gods he understood her silent plea—she wasn’t sure that she could actually form the words. He was moving quickly now, rising out of the water, every step forward only building the near-painful tension in her body.

He was on his knees, diving between her thighs before she could even truly register it—the choking gasp of air she took the second his lips met her clit was enough to break loose whatever had kept her completely locked into place. She tightened her thighs around his head and dug her nails deeper into the rock, already shuddering and shaking as he gripped her hips and kept going.

Eist shifted further down, slipping his tongue inside her and feeling a measure of satisfaction at the way she bucked in response, one hand coming to his hair in encouragement.

She had a point, he realized. They really couldn’t resist devolving, if given half a chance.

But in a way, it was reassuring. This wouldn’t be the end between them—at least not the end of their connection, their attraction to each other.

“Eist,” she hissed sharply, and he understood the urgency in her tone. He came back to her clit, using just enough teeth to send her into a shaking, shuddering mess again. He took a few beats to enjoy the taste of her, the slippery warmth, before turning slightly to nuzzle into her thigh, pressing a kiss against the skin.

Her hand was still in his hair, but it was no longer pulling or holding him down. It was stroking over his head with easy, lazy beats, a silent display of gratitude and affection.

“See?” She breathed. “We’re just…built to tear each other apart.”

He stilled at that, taking a beat to simply look up at her. “I don’t feel torn apart. Do you?”

She smiled slightly at that. “You know what I meant. It isn’t always a bad thing, being broken down and reset.”

Perhaps, he thought to himself. And part of his heart wished they truly could do that—that they could break down the strange boundaries created over the years, that they could reset into something more.

But even as he wished it, he knew it couldn’t be. So he merely planted his hands on the rock, on either side of her hips, and slowly rose to his feet, feeling a ripple of delight at the way her body shifted and countered, chin tilting up to meet his.

“Zagradd will be awake soon,” she pointed out, her voice barely a rasp.

He hummed in agreement. Quietly, he asked, “Not too exhausted?”

“No,” she assured him. “In fact, it was rather…invigorating.”

“Well,” he grinned, reaching up to stroke the tip of her nose. “If you decide you’d like to start all your days with such invigorating activities….”

She gave him a reprimanding look—or at least a look that would have been reprimanding, except for her sparkling eyes and smirking lips. “Despite this…momentary lapse, I am serious about the agreement.”

He merely smiled and moved away, grabbing the linen towel she’d used earlier and patting himself dry as well. “As you wish. Just know it’s gonna be one helluva a time, catching up afterwards.”

She laughed softly at that, dipping her head forward and gingerly getting off the rock. The tips of her fingers still felt raw from gripping onto the rock for dear life, but some things were worth a little pain.

She quickly dressed, giving Eist’s arse a quick smack as she briskly made her way back to camp.

“Fucking lech,” he called after her. She laughed.

She hadn’t lied—her body felt lighter, rejuvenated by the rush of endorphins. But her heart—oh, her heart was a different matter entirely.

One day in, and she already couldn’t keep her word. How did that bode for the other promises she’d made to him?

* * *

Surprisingly, Calanthe offered absolutely no commentary when they finally crossed into Brugge. Granted, it was a brief crossing, only through a single village before they went up into the mountains.

And granted, she had other matters on her mind. Eist had already sensed a slight uneasiness growing in her as they’d continued north all morning. By late afternoon, as the first signs of the village came into view, she was visibly uncertain.

“What is the name of this place?” She asked, tone already heavy with knowing.

“Coteau-ville,” Zagradd offered. They were following the same route he’d taken to get to Verden, and he’d proven to have an impressive memory for sights and town names.

“Ah,” Calanthe said simply. Then she glanced over at Eist. “I shall…have to go around. You two carry on through.”

She didn’t wait for their agreement—she urged her horse into a trot, taking a wider arc around the open field they were currently crossing.

Zagradd glanced over at Eist, his face lined with confusion.

“The Lioness is not…the friendliest of souls,” Eist supplied. “There are certain places that do not remember her fondly.”

Zagradd merely nodded softly, as if perhaps he understood. And he did, Eist supposed. He’d been around her long enough to be exposed to her brusquer side, and while Zagradd hadn’t seen the full extent of her temper, there had certainly been hints of it, over the past twenty-four hours.

They rode through the main road, through the marketplace, where they replenished a few supplies. Zagradd was definitely a northerner, Eist noted—he didn’t truly depend on the land, the way southerners did. He didn’t expect nature to be kind, didn’t expect the land to provide enough bounty to meet all his needs. A wise approach, but one that also burdened them down with more than they needed.

Still, Eist did not point this out. He merely stayed atop his horse, idly glancing around the bustling little square.

There was a girl, selling flowers. Thick clusters of light purple and white, bursts of rich red and deep blue. Colors that would all go quite well with Calanthe’s dark eyes, he thought.

He shook his head softly, almost smiling at his own foolishness. He’d never been the type to buy flowers, and even if he were, what would Calanthe say? She’d probably laugh until she was blue in the face—and that was her reaction if he were lucky. There was an equal chance that she’d punch him in the throat for ever crossing such a line, with such an openly romantic gesture.

Still, he wasn’t wrong. She’d look beautiful, surrounded by such colors.

He truly was losing it, he thought. Maybe Vanielle’s warning about the end of himself was really just about him somehow going mad.

Not that it was entirely his fault. His mind, yet again, went back to that morning, at the stream. The absolute erotic energy of the moment, the feeling of something new and untried, even after so many years of so many things shared between them, physically.

They’d never…done anything like that. Had a moment that wasn’t simply sex, simply their bodies together. There had been something deeper, something more vulnerable at play, and he was both intrigued and invigorated at the thought.

He wanted more. More of feeling like he was the only other person in the world, when she looked at him with such wide and wanting eyes, more of feeling like he was giving her something no one else could, when he made himself vulnerable and open to her gaze. More of hearing the way she’d said his name, the neediness and urgency and affection that had been palpable, in a way that he’d never heard before.

Yes, he could agree with her—they seemed incapable of not falling apart around each other, in moments like that. But on other points, he disagreed—he simply couldn’t believe it was in their natures. He’d met other children of charming creatures (hell, even other children of sirens), and he’d never reacted the way that he did to her. They weren’t just mindless magnets, drawn together without thought or reason.

There was a connection. Created by their personalities, by _who_ they were, not _what_ they were. Yes, some of it was heightened by their powers—but some of it belonged to them, to their relationship as friends and…whatever they were now. 

Whatever they were now, it wasn’t the kind of thing that involved flowers. That much he knew. He shifted his attention elsewhere, waiting for Zagradd to finish up before they continued on. Calanthe was waiting for them, further down the road, at the foothills of the mountains. She almost smiled at the sight of them, the tension in her shoulders easing visibly, even at a distance.

No, that wasn’t because his nature pulled at her. Nor was her nature responsible for the way his heart fluttered, just a little, at the sight of her almost-smile.

In a sudden rush of affection, he wished he’d bought the flowers anyways.


	7. That Woman

**North Shore, An Skellig.**

Father went out looking for her, every day. And every day, Eist’s heart swelled with hope—only to be crushed every evening, when he saw Father trudging back home, alone and defeated.

Then, one day, Father did not go out. And that was that.

He never mentioned Mother by name. Only called her _That Woman_ , with a certain mixture of heartache and hate. Something in his tone always made Eist’s stomach coil, made him feel just a little sick—like he had been wrong for loving her, for still loving her, for still wishing she’d come back.

Sibba gave up her apprenticeship, even though by then she was over two years into it. She stayed home, cooked the suppers and swept the hearth and laundered the clothes. She was only twelve and not very good at it, so Bran helped when he could, whenever he was home from his own apprenticeship aboard a freighter. Eist tried to help, too, as best a six-year-old could.

The other villagers pitied Father. At first, a few helped with the search. Some of the women would stop by, now and again, to help Sibba with this or that around the house. But they weren’t truly being helpful, Eist soon learned—they simply wanted to see how things were faring, to have more fodder for their gossip.

Eist sometimes snuck into the market, to listen to the things they’d say.

_Tuirseach’s woman was a siren, don’t you know? I always said she was far too fair to be normal folk. And her teeth—well, anyone could tell by those teeth!_

_Aye, the children are goodly things, but I still would never let my son look upon the girl one—she’s her mother’s child after all, spittin’ image._

_The poor wee one. To have a mother just abandon him like that—what mother could ever do such a thing?_

_Poor old man, he’s in a right state of it. Still just as lovesick as the day he brought her ashore. She’ll be the death of him, still._

His heart would burn with anger—anger for his mother, his sister, his whole family. But apparently, there was truth in their words.

Because by the winter, Father was gone, too. Sent out to sea on a pyre.

Eist didn’t miss him, not like he missed Mother. And he felt guilty about it—after all, Father had stayed, hadn’t he? And it wasn’t his fault that he’d turned cold and wasted away, still cursed with love for his mother, some creature that could only inspire devotion, but could never be devoted or loyal herself.

Still, it wasn’t Father that he dreamed about. It wasn’t Father’s voice his missed, or Father’s smile that made him want to cry, at the mere memory of.

Mother had caught them all under her spell, it seemed. They’d loved her, but it had never been enough. They had never been enough.


	8. Time to Break Out the Silver

**Thirty-Seven Years Later.**

**Several Miles North of Hengfors, Kovir.**

Eist grimaced as he slowly awakened. If nothing else, he looked forward to the promise of a real bed, once they reached Velhad, Zagradd’s village. His bones were too old for sleeping on the ground these days.

He rolled onto his back, scrubbed a hand across his face. Took a moment to simply take a deep breath. Then he turned his head, glancing across the campsite to see Calanthe, still awake, taking her usual turn as the first watch of the night.

It was probably almost time for his watch. That’s why he’d awakened—for nearly two weeks’ now, they’d been set in this routine, and surprisingly, his body had adjusted quite easily to it.

Two weeks. He marveled softly at the time gone. Calanthe had cautiously avoided any situation that might lead to a repeat of that morning at the stream, and Eist had both understood and respected her attempts. Still, they had spent the days together, joking and trading barbs as they rode along with Zagradd, who also possessed a good sense of humor and a wit sharp enough to keep up. Tomorrow, they’d be in Velhad, and the work would truly begin.

As usual, his mind turned back to Vanielle’s predictions. He’d long given up trying to forget about her words—but he was less worried by them, truth be told. Every day, he was reminded of Calanthe’s skill and competence, and his certainty of her safety grew. She’d gained even more skill, since he’d last hunted with her, and he felt a measure of pride and satisfaction in knowing that she was even more capable of taking on a challenge than even he had first believed.

Still, it was good to remember the warning. To be…wary.

Calanthe noticed him shifting out of the corner of her eye, and glanced his way. She smiled slightly in silent greeting.

“Almost my turn?” He spoke softly, just enough to reach her ears but not loud enough to wake Zagradd.

“Almost,” she returned, just as quietly.

Eist sat up, running his fingers through his hair. He glanced over again to find her smiling softly at him, her face golden and warm in the firelight. He rose to his feet and came to sit beside her, leaning back against the log behind her and mimicking her cross-legged pose.

She turned her face to him fully, dark eyes lined with curious concern. “You haven’t been sleeping well.”

A statement, not a question.

“No,” he admitted softly. With a shrug, he added, “Then again, this old body doesn’t like sleeping out in the fields as much as it used to.”

She hummed in understanding at that. “If Zagradd hadn’t promised real beds in Velhad, I would have already turned around and gone back to Verden.”

He grinned. “And given up the chance to prove that you’re the greatest among us?”

“Some things are simply not worth it,” she drawled, to his amusement. “I’d rather have a bruised pride and a back that didn’t scream every time I moved.”

“Lies,” he chided softly. The woman was far too prideful to allow any bruising to her ego, no matter how slight.

The corner of her mouth hooked up into a grin. “I guess we’ll never know.”

He rolled his eyes at that, smiling at little when he heard her amused huff in response. She shifted her attention back to the fire, her tone becoming softer, edged with something almost fearful.

“It is…getting harder, isn’t it?” She blinked, still keeping her gaze straight ahead. “Just…keeping up. Physically.”

“We are no spring chickens, you and I,” he agreed softly. Then, he prompted, “What other choice do we have?”

She swallowed at that. “We always have choices, Hound.”

He felt a prickle of curiosity. “Do you have a plan? For a life after you’ve had your fill of monsters?”

She gave a slight nod, barely perceptible. “I do.”

He was surprised at that. He’d always assumed that she’d simply keep doing this for the rest of her life, like him.

“This may be…one of my last hunts,” she added softly. Something tightened unpleasantly in his chest at the thought.

No more hunts. No more reason to turn up in Nostrag, at the Ferryman. No more excuse to run into each other, to…devolve, as they always did during such meetings.

No more Calanthe. The very thing he’d feared most, during Vanielle’s prophecy.

“You’re a bit young for retirement, don’t you think?” He asked quietly, trying so very hard not to let emotion color his tone.

She shrugged. “Sometimes it’s not the years you’ve lived, but the living you’ve done in those years. And I…have done enough for several lifetimes, Hound.”

He hummed in understanding. Still, his throat felt tight at the thought.

Then she blinked and turned back to him with a smirk. “Of course, I can’t retire until I’ve fully proven that I am the greatest among us, so there may be a few years left in me yet.”

Eist found himself grinning, too. He watched her gaze slowly slide down to his mouth, watched the small, hesitant half-breath she took and the way she lightly pulled her own lip between her teeth, just barely, just enough to be noticed.

It wasn’t the first time he’d watched her pull herself back, over the past two weeks. And while there was a small flutter of disappointment, it also only further proved his own belief—they weren’t slaves to their natures, to whatever dispositional pull Calanthe believed existed between them. They could stop, if they wanted to.

It was a choice. Just like every other part of their destiny.

“I’m stealing your bedroll,” she informed him, pushing onto her feet. As announced, she grabbed her own bedroll and tossed it on top of his. Rather smart, Eist thought. Not much extra padding, but every little bit counted.

Still, he felt the need to tease, “Took you two weeks to figure that out. My, we are slipping in our old age.”

She arched a brow in his direction as she laid down, turning her back to him and the fire. As usual, she didn’t keep a blanket over her—she was far too warm as it was, Eist knew.

He simply stared at the familiar outline of her form, fully aware of how it felt, snuggled against his own. He missed it, he realized—yes, he missed actual sex with Calanthe, of course he did, but he also missed simply holding her afterwards, on the rare occasions that they did stay together the rest of the night. Missed feeling the weight of her, when she finally drifted asleep, heavy and solid against him. The feeling of her shifting closer again in the night, how his dreams were invaded by a sudden surge of warmth whenever she pulled him back to her again, the delicious delight of waking to the sensation of her leg or her arm thrown over him, or her cheek resting on his chest.

Soon, he reminded himself. Soon, they’d be done with this job, and they could spend a few days simply curled up in each other’s arms. It wouldn’t be much, but it would be more than they could have right now, and that would be enough. It would have to be enough.

He shook his head softly and glanced away. Retirement. He’d never actually considered it. Hadn’t considered any life beyond the one he had now, truth be told. It seemed pointless. He was going to hunt monsters until he couldn’t—and most likely, he’d realize that he couldn’t when he finally got killed by one. Not because he loved it, but because he was good at it and had never really tried his hand at anything else besides sailing, and this, at least, felt like it was doing something worthwhile. He was helping people, in some way. Undoing some of the damage he was partially responsible for, as a child of a monster.

Fate. Wasn’t that what Vanielle would call it? As the child of a monster, he was specifically designed to be better at hunting them. It was what he was, down to the core. Nothing could ever change that, no matter what choices he made in life.

 _We always have choices, Hound_ , Calanthe’s voice echoed softly in his mind. Maybe she was right.

But maybe he’d made too many choices along the way—too many choices that would forever keep him here, doing this, being this.

Again, he glanced over at Calanthe. Wondered what choices she’d made, what had influenced her decision to retire, what life awaited her, once she left this one. He tried to imagine her in a quiet life, living on a farm (she wouldn’t survive in a town—she’d have her neighbors ready to murder her within a month of moving in). He couldn’t quite manage it. Then again, he’d only ever known her as a hunter, an adventurer of sorts.

He didn’t know her that well, outside of their professions, he realized with a blink of surprise. For all the ways he knew her body, for all the time they’d spent together as colleagues and occasional hunting partners, he knew very little about her—and vice versa.

He didn’t even know her last name. The thought surprised him—eleven years, and somehow, he’d never thought to ask. First, it had been poor etiquette: there was an unspoken rule amongst the hunters, that you didn’t ask for proper names. You knew them by their hunter sign, nothing more. If they chose to give their name, that was their choice, but you never asked. Then, he realized, when he did learn her name, he’d been so taken with how delicate and beautiful it sounded, how perfectly it captured her, that he didn’t even notice that she’d never added her surname.

 _Calanthe_. It was who she was, beyond explanation. But suddenly, it felt odd, stilted and awkward between them. How had he never noticed? What else had he let slip by?

And why, more than anything, did he suddenly want to know everything?

He knew the answer to that one. These past two weeks had done nothing to push aside the feelings he had for her. If anything, they only grew. When she smiled, when she made a particularly bawdy quip or laughed raucously at one of Zagradd’s, when she furrowed her brows while making willowbark tea over the fire, or when she tutted and talked softly to her horse as she removed its tack and checked its hooves every evening—every moment he witnessed only further solidified his certainty that he loved her, in all her shades and nuances.

But how could he love her, when he hardly knew a thing about her? He wondered softly. He felt his throat tighten with a wash of anxiety.

He was becoming his father, he thought with a flash of mild panic. Lovesick over a creature beyond his comprehension, a woman who could never love him back.

He sighed and scrubbed his hand across his gritty-feeling eyes. He truly had not been sleeping well. It was taking its toll, mentally. Not the best way to start a hunt.

He rose to his feet and walked around the campsite, further outside the fire’s glow. He stopped, sensing something in the darkness. He waited a full beat, letting his eyes adjust to the lower light—but he didn’t sense another supernatural creature, at least.

But there was something out there. With one last long look, he quietly returned to the fire. He took a seat just a little closer to Calanthe, smiling softly at the gentle sound of her snoring.

He might not know a lot about her, he decided, but he knew more of her than most. Not just physically, but yes, intimately. He knew what she was truly like, when she wasn’t bluffing and bellowing her way through life. Knew the lexicon of her smiles and the languages of all her unspoken tells. He didn’t need to know her last name to love her.

Still, he wanted to know. He wanted to know everything.

There was a loud cracking sound, like a large branch falling out of a tree. He turned to the sound, and Calanthe was popping up as well, suddenly wide awake.

“Fuck,” she breathed, eyes wide with adrenaline. She whispered, “You feel anything?”

“Nope,” he returned quietly. “I think it was just a falling branch.”

“Bloody hell.” She slowly lowered back down onto her bedroll.

Eist waited a beat, then decided to ask, “Calanthe?”

“Hmm.”

“What’s your last name?”

He could feel the way her entire body stilled.

“I don’t have one,” she finally answered. After a beat, she added, “That name—that family she belonged to—it’s from a different life.”

 _She_ , Eist noted. Not _I_.

“What on earth made you think of such a thing?” She asked quietly. She rolled onto her back, shifting so that she could almost look at him, out of the corner of her eye.

He shrugged. “Dunno. Just…one of those odd realizations you make, in the middle of the night.”

She hummed at that. Another beat passed. He almost thought she’d fallen back asleep. Then, she spoke again, “You know, I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that. Not since…well, ages, I guess.”

“Well, I guess I’m honored to be the exception.”

She grinned warmly, closing her eyes. “You’ve always been rather exceptional, Hound.”

“Have I?”

“In all the ways that count.”

“Please explain.”

“No. Shan’t.” With that, she rolled onto her side again, turning her back to Eist and the fire once more. There was something smug and playful in her tone, something that pulled the corners of his mouth into a smile.

 _Rather exceptional_. He liked the sound of it, on her lips, directed at him.

* * *

Zagradd was eager to be home, and so they broke camp shortly after dawn. They arrived to Velhad in the late afternoon. It was the kind of drab, dreary, claustrophobic little village one would expect, so far in the mountains and the cold. The houses were packed close together along the main street, which was rough with uneven cobblestones, and the little side streets were so narrow that you couldn’t ride a horse down them, even single file.

Calanthe was enjoying the much cooler clime, at least. Summer here felt like late fall in Verden, and she relished the lack of boiling heat.

Every house had a fire roaring in it, all throughout the day. The sky was smudged with smoke and the buildings and rooftops were all covered in ash and soot as well. The only color was the garishly bright dyes of everyone’s clothes, which Calanthe assumed was an attempt to fight off the nearly-oppressive grey of their surroundings.

She and Eist, in their brown leathers and undyed linen, looked entirely out of place. As if their darker hair and weapons weren’t obvious enough.

The village had a few huntsmen, but no guards, no soldiers, no true fighters of any kind. They were the sort of place too insignificant to even have a local lord—and were probably better off for it, truth be told.

They did, however, have a mayor of sorts—which turned out to be Zagradd Nyt, to her surprise. He’d certainly played that one close to the chest. But then again, it explained why he’d been the one to come find them.

He took them to a house at the eastern side of the village, closer to the mountains. The bottom floor was an apothecary, but above were two rooms.

Zagradd opened the door and led them into the space, motioning around, “We don’t have an inn, or much else in way of lodging, but it’s a solid roof and a safe place to lay your head—and the village will help feed you, as best we can.”

Calanthe’s face was completely devoid of expression as she glanced around. Two rooms: a main room with a small kitchen of sorts, a long wooden table and chairs, and a bed in the corner, and second room that was smaller, with a larger bed. There wasn’t much dust about, and the place felt lived-in.

“What happened to the family who lived here?” She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted the answer.

“Herre Gethe is still living,” Zagradd explained softly. Given the name above the shop door was Gethe, Eist assumed Zagradd was referring to the owner. “But he and his family moved into a larger home, after—well, we have lost so many now, and the homes stay empty. It is best to put them to use.”

Eist merely hummed. That was the way of life—the Gethe family got a larger home, at the expense of someone else’s misfortune. He, too, cast a glance around the space. Truly, it was better than most accommodations afforded them while working a hunt. More often than not, he ended up sleeping in a barn, if he were lucky, and simply outdoors, if he weren’t.

Zagradd promised to return to bring them to his own house for supper, then quietly left—most likely eager to see his own family, Eist thought.

Calanthe threw her rucksack and saddlebags onto the bed in the main room. Gingerly, she unstrapped the ax from her back and set it down gently, as if it were a baby.

“You don’t want a little more privacy?” Eist motioned to the bedroom.

She gave a curt shake of her head. “I don’t sleep in any room that doesn’t have multiple, clear exits.”

He walked into the bedroom. It did have only two very small windows, as opposed to the larger ones in the main room. With a shrug, he tossed his own bags onto the larger bed. He heard the wood creaking as Calanthe wrenched the windows in the main room open, and curiously, he walked back in.

She was leaning out the window slightly, glancing around at their surroundings.

“Thoughts?” He gently prompted.

“Fifty people gone already—maybe more, since Zagradd left,” Calanthe said quietly. She gave a single, soft shake of her head. “This place can’t afford to lose any more.”

He hummed in agreement. There had been a few curious onlookers, a few who came up and greeted Zagradd outright—but it was evident that this village maybe held over a hundred people. This wasn’t the kind of place that new people moved to. It was dwindling, and dying.

“Worst part is—if it is a therianthrope, it might well be here right now, walking among them,” she added, casting another long glance down the cobbled street.

“We’ll know more soon,” he pointed out. She merely hummed, pushing off the windowsill and moving away.

“We’ve got company,” she announced.

He frowned at that. Then, a few seconds later, he heard footsteps on the stairs, followed by a knock upon the door.

Calanthe merely looked at him. It was obvious that she wasn’t answering the door. Eist moved across the room, opening the door to find a man with riotous ginger hair and a full beard smiling warmly at him, hand already held out in greeting.

“Belo Gethe.” He offered. “Welcome to my home.”

Eist stepped back, allowing the man to enter. He took a beat to shake his hand. Then Belo spotted Calanthe and moved closer, offering his hand again. “We are more than pleased to see you here.”

“Well, we’ve only just arrived,” Calanthe drawled, taking his hand and giving it a curt shake. “We’ll see how long your pleasure lasts, once you get to know us.”

He grinned at that. “I must admit, I’ve never met a lady hunter before.”

“And you still haven’t. I’m no lady.” She ended it with a wolfish grin, and Eist was surprised to see Belo Gethe chuckling lightly in response.

“Well said, well said. I meant no offense, and I hope none is taken.”

“Not in the least,” she returned smoothly. Then, leaning forward with a conspiratorial air, she said, “I have been told you people know how to brew a good lager. Where could I find proof of this?”

“Ah,” Belo shifted, lightly patting her shoulder. “Let me show you—that is, if you are settled in and ready to stretch your legs?”

“More than ready,” Calanthe assured him. With a gesture towards the door, Belo headed out again, Calanthe following close behind.

Eist could have been knocked over by a feather. In over a decade, he’d never seen the woman so charming.

She merely offered a smirk over her shoulder at him. He quickly followed. Once they were on the street, he pulled her back slightly, just enough that Belo could not overhear their words.

“What’s your plan here, Lioness?” He asked quietly. For he had no doubt that her clever mind was already turning.

“Get the locals drunk and have them spill their theories,” she returned in a low tone. “There’s often a grain of truth amongst the idiotic ideas. And more often than not, they’ve seen and heard more than they realize. Plus, they need to trust us. We’re outsiders, in more ways than one, Hound.”

Now she looked up at him, her expression sobering slightly. “And if we do have to kill one of their own, we need to be damn sure that they still like us, afterwards.”

He felt a wave of unease at the thought. Still, her reasoning was sound. He nodded in agreement. With a curt nod as well, Calanthe picked up her pace, which Eist matched. Soon, they were even with Belo Gethe again, making their way to the village tavern.

* * *

Calanthe and Belo were immediate drinking buddies, Eist noted, and within an hour, everyone was trading stories of odd things they’d encountered in the woods, over the years. Calanthe had easily worked in the story of the falling branch from the night before, and it had kicked off the entire conversation. It also certainly helped that the room was simmering with her dragon charm, everyone suddenly feeling warm and mellow and more than open to sharing tales.

Soon, it circled into strange things from the past six months. Then, inevitably, strange things surrounding the deaths, and then the death themselves.

Eist kept his drinking to a minimum, wanting a clear head as he listened. Since he knew Calanthe’s aim, he could better help. He tried to remember as many details as possible, tried to filter out the less important bits. As much as he enjoyed feeling her charm at work, he ignored it, easily pushing it away to keep his focus.

Eventually, a young girl came in, looking for them—Zagradd’s daughter, apparently. They said their goodbyes and headed to the Nyt house for supper.

Calanthe didn’t speak, the entire walk, and Eist chose to follow her lead. She was mulling something over in her head, he could tell.

He loved the look on her face, when she was picking apart a puzzle, he realized with a flutter of fondness. The little crease between her brows, the way the corners of her mouth shifted downward, making a little line on each side that just begged to be kissed.

He didn’t kiss her, of course. But he told himself that he would kiss her, exactly there, once this was all over and they had their moment of respite. Over the past two weeks, he’d begun building a list of the things he’d do, whenever she gave him the chance again. It was becoming quite extensive.

Zagradd had four daughters, as it turned out. The eldest, who’d come to fetch them, was fourteen. The youngest was four.

Eava, the four-year-old, was, as most children her age, completely unfettered by politesse. She stared openly at Calanthe and Eist—Calanthe in particular.

“Something wrong?” Calanthe asked, not unkindly. She was seated at the table, next to Eist, and Eava had simply come to stand at Calanthe’s side and stare, whilst her mother and sisters bustled around in the kitchen, preparing the last bits of supper as Zagradd added wood to all the fires in the house.

“Are you really a monster?” Eava asked.

“Yes,” Calanthe answered simply.

“What sort?”

“A dragon.” She leaned in, whispering it a bit dramatically and widening her eyes for effect. She tamped down at smile at the way Eava shuffled back a step, her own eyes growing wider.

Still, the little girl clutched her doll tighter and fixed her with a distrustful stare. “You don’t _look_ like a dragon.”

“And how do you know what dragons look like?”

“ _Everyone_ knows what they look like.”

Calanthe shrugged, as if the girl had a point.

“And what are you?” Eava turned her focus to Eist.

“A siren,” Calanthe answered for him. “But lucky for us all, he can’t sing very well. So we’re safe.”

Eist gave her hip a light spat under the table. She didn’t glance over, but her grin deepened.

Eava took another beat to study them. Then, she decreed, “I’m not scared of you. Either of you.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Eist assured her. “We’re here to help.”

Zagradd’s wife, Hene, bustled into the room with a large tureen of soup. “Eava, leave ‘em be. Sorry, that one’s a bit of rascal—she’ll talk you to death, if you let her.”

Hene set down the soup and ruffled her daughter’s unruly blonde hair.

“Quite alright,” Calanthe assured her. She reached out, almost instinctively, to tuck a wisp of Eava’s hair back into place.

Eava skittered away, the fear screamingly evident in her little face. Calanthe pulled back her hand as if she’d touched fire.

Eist saw the jolt of her shoulders, could almost feel the wash of guilt and chagrin that rippled over Calanthe’s entire body. His heart hurt immediately at the sight.

His mind replayed her words from earlier: _We’re outsiders, in more ways than one._

Calanthe put her hand in her lap and kept it there, for the rest of the evening. Little Eava moved to the other side of the table and did not come back around, for the rest of the evening.

* * *

Apparently, Zagradd had also been busy, during their time apart. He had new deaths to report, and a few other unusual happenings. Obviously, he waited until after dinner, until the girls were upstairs in their beds, before discussing such matters. Eist and Calanthe asked a few questions, but for the most part, there wasn’t much more information to be gleaned.

“We should go up into the mountains, in the morning,” Eist decided, glancing over at Calanthe, who merely nodded in agreement. “It would be good to see some of the homes that were…attacked. See if we can find anything to help us narrow down what we’re dealing with.”

“Of course, of course,” Zagradd nodded quickly. “I’ll have Edya come round in the morning to bring you to breakfast. After that, we can go.”

Eist nodded—Edya must be the eldest, since that was who’d fetched them for supper. All four of Zagradd’s daughters had similar sounding names and it was hard to keep them straight.

“Perfect,” Calanthe decreed, pushing away from the table with a very decided air.

The street was deserted and the village quiet and dark as they made their way back to the apothecary. Eist could hear the low calls of owls and the breeze rippling through the trees that lined the edge of the village, tall and dark. The moon, however, was quite bright—they were days away from the next full moon, he realized with a slight wave of unease.

They hadn’t thought to light a fire before they left, or leave open the door, and now everything was pitch dark in the windowless stairwell. Calanthe went up the stairs first, lightly patting her shoulder for Eist to put his hand atop. It was slower, a little more unsteady climbing stairs in absolute darkness. She stumbled and his other hand found her waist, steadying her. Before he could remove it, her hand was lightly over his, holding it there. She didn’t let go until they were at the top of the stairs, on even ground again. With some fumbling, she found the doorknob and opened the door. There were a few pale shafts of moonlight coming through the windows, made thinner by the nearby trees and surrounding buildings, but after utter darkness it was a world of difference. They shuffled around, quickly lighting candles.

“Do you need a fire?” Calanthe asked, glancing over at him.

He considered it, then shook his head. “I have blankets, if it gets cold.”

“You can have mine, too.” She nodded towards her bed. “I certainly won’t be needing them.”

“We’ll see how the first night goes,” he decided. She merely hummed. He took a candle into the bedroom, softly closing the door—more to give her a sense a privacy than himself. He could hear her still moving around, the soft clunk of her boots hitting the wooden floor and the shuffling of layers of clothing being removed, the creak of the mattress as she sank into it. It was all so painfully domestic, so mundane. He readied himself for bed as well, nearly groaning in relief at the feeling of an actual mattress beneath him.

His mind wandered over the information they’d gleaned, over the past few hours. They were too exhausted now, but he knew they’d discuss it all in the morning.

Then, his mind just…wandered. The look on Calanthe’s face, when she made a joke at the tavern, the grin of delight at someone else’s quip in response. The way her expression shifted to something more serious, tinged with almost-sorrow, as the tales began, the stories of the ones who’d been so cruelly taken. The look on her face, when little Eava pulled away, so obviously frightened of Calanthe, despite her declarations to the opposite.

The last image stayed the longest. Calanthe had always seemed rather proud of her heritage, in an odd way—proud because a dragon was something that inspired fear, something that made people cautiously respectful of her, most of the time. It gave her excuse to sneer and leer at others, which seemed to be among her favorite pastimes.

She’d been willing to play to that idea, when Eava first started asking questions. When it was just a game, when she truly thought the child did not fear her. But when it became reality, when it was evident that, to Eava, she truly was a scary monster—she’d crumpled.

Despite all her pride and might, she truly was a soft little thing, Eist thought. That was what he’d loved most about being with her, he realized. When they were alone and truly bare—not just physically, but emotionally—she was such a soft thing.

He tried not to think too much of her softness, right now. It did no good, to pine over such things.

In the next room, Calanthe was curled into herself, mind busily churning.

She wanted to talk to Eist. To start picking apart the puzzle. But he needed rest—there were lines under his eyes, deeper and heavier than usual, and after supper, she was half-certain that he was a few seconds away from falling asleep at the table. She hoped a solid night’s sleep in a real bed would cure his exhaustion, or at least put enough of a dent in it to bring him back to his usual bright-eyed self.

It had been hard, watching him slowly drain over the past two weeks. She’d known that he hadn’t told her everything about the Bruggian's warning, and as they’d gotten closer to Velhad, the odd sense of unease radiating from him only further solidified her suspicions.

She couldn’t bring herself to ask. She didn’t have the right to know, she told herself—she didn’t have that place in his life. But she also knew that, in all honesty, she didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to have to face any unpleasant truth that might arise.

No. She’d promised to keep him safe, and she would. He would be safe, and all would be well. That’s all she needed to know, all she needed to focus on.

The sooner they slayed this monster, the better. And not just in regards to finally being able to ease the tension between them—she needed to know that it was all over, and he was still here, still alive on the other side.

She closed her eyes, reminded herself that she was safe, he was safe, everything was safe. Willed herself to sleep, to clear her mind of its worries and focus only on the moment, and the task at hand.

Still, she dreamt of him. Running through a forest at dawn, searching for him, heart in her throat. She woke, unsure if she’d ever actually found him and queasy at the thought of losing him, even if only in her dreams.

* * *

The air was deliciously cool, heavy with the scent of spruce and the occasional hint of pine sap. It was a bit thinner, which made it a little harder for Calanthe to breath, but she was still so delighted at the lack of heat that she didn’t mind.

Eist was trudging along behind her, seeming equally happy. Zagradd was leading them to one of the houses deep in the mountains, and they’d abandoned their horses half a mile back, once the climb became too narrow and too steep. She knew Eist was simply enjoying the chance to move and stretch his legs, after so many days of being confined to the saddle.

“Almost there,” Zagradd called from ahead. Calanthe didn’t waste her breath with replying. Since they were out and about, they had to be prepared for everything—she had her ax strapped to her back, and the weight of it, pulling against the strap across her chest, only furthered the feeling of constricted lungs.

The house was simple. A main room with four walls, a large hearth, and a sleeping loft. The bodies were gone but no one had truly bothered to scrub the bloodstains from the floor, or the door frames.

Calanthe quietly made a circle around the room, scanning the scene. Eist walked straight through to the door at the back of the house.

“Lioness,” he called softly. Both Calanthe and Zagradd were on alert. Calanthe quickly walked over to the door and stepped outside, so that she could see what had caught Eist’s attention.

There were marks, on the other side of the doorframe. Deep gashes. Probably close to seven feet high—they were over Eist’s head, which meant they were easily over six feet. Both on the door and the frame.

Something had pried its way inside.

Tall. Powerful. Deadly claws. Definitely a therianthrope.

She glanced over at Eist, easily reading his expression, which implied he’d come to the same conclusion.

“Well,” she breathed. “Time to break out the silver.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mental Casting: Though I doubt he'll be a major part of the story, I always picture Kristofer Hivju for Belo Gethe. Because he is quite literally just the best <3


	9. Charms and Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...remember when I was like "Ok, this is the posting schedule"....and then just did not post according to that schedule? Yeah, fun times had by all.  
> I am insane (-ly driven by the muse rn), and working on two fics at once. So the new schedule is that THIS story will update on Wednesdays and Sundays (very rarely flipping over to Mondays), while my other work "A Night with the Queen", will update on Fridays or Saturdays.

Eist wished the ladies well and trudged his way back up the street to the apothecary. Once they’d returned from the trip up the mountain, Calanthe had decided they should divide and conquer. She dealt with the local men, while Eist spoke to the ladies.

It had worked like a charm—at least on Eist’s end. He didn’t know how Calanthe had fared, yet. Given what he'd seen at the tavern the night before, he assumed she'd done quite well.

She was already back in their rooms. Pacing around the long table, with a scrap of paper in one hand and a pencil in the other.

“How’d you do?” She asked, looking up as he entered.

“Got a few more details narrowed down,” he supplied, shutting the door behind him. He discarded the shortsword at his hip and the belt of curved karambit blades strapped to his chest, laying them across the wooden chair that Calanthe had set next to the door, which was already adorned with her own weapons. It was a silly thing, but he rather liked the way their various blades looked, laid out together. They complemented each other, filled in the gaps of strengths and weaknesses.

She watched him for a beat, then turned her attention back to the paper. “Which ones?”

He relayed what he’d learned from the local women, which she scribbled on the paper. Then she frowned, glancing up at the map she’d gotten from Zagradd, which was currently laid out on the table, along with some lunar charts and a few of her own notes.

She turned, sitting on the edge of the table as she kept her gaze focused on the map, now slightly behind her. She crossed her left arm under her chest, her right hand lightly tapping the pencil against her mouth, which was pressed into a hard, thoughtful line as her brows furrowed, dark eyes shifting to various points on the map.

Gods, he truly loved everything about her, he thought. Her brilliant mind, her adorable sense of concentration, the curve of her neck as she shifted and looked at another point, the little lines around the edge of her mouth deepening again.

“It doesn’t add up,” she announced.

“Hmm?” He tried to redirect his focus, moving closer to see what caused her confusion. Maybe he stood a little closer than necessary, but she didn’t shift away—if anything, she shifted closer as she reached out, tapping points with her pencil.

“The most recent attack happened here. But also here. Two attacks in one night, rather far apart.”

“We’re sure these are both the same night?” Eist gauged the distance between the two points. Over five miles, under ten. Through heavily-wooded mountains.

She nodded. “The last full moon.”

“So definitely a therianthrope.” They’d already agreed on as much, but this only confirmed their theory.

Calanthe hummed, shifting a bit atop the table. “My money’s on werewolf—a little tall for a werecat, those claw marks on the door. Could be werebear, but that would make it slower, and that would only make the situation even _less_ probable.”

He frowned slightly at that. She held up a finger, as if promising to explain. She grabbed the lunar chart that was next to the map, checking it again. “Here’s the bit that doesn’t quite add up. Assuming it’s a run-of-the-mill therianthrope, it wouldn’t change until midnight. Given the forest and the mountains, let’s assume it won’t register the sun until around civil dawn—”

“What dawn?”

Calanthe looked at him, as if flummoxed that he would need to ask. She clarified, “It’s…there are degrees of dawn, and twilight, and they do affect transformative creatures. This is the bit before sunrise.”

Eist had known the woman was intelligent, but she was _educated_ , he realized. _Well_ educated. “Alright so this…dawn—”

“ _Civil_ , Eist, keep up, I know you can.” She set her paper back on the table, tone completely matter-of-fact. “Civil dawn would have been visible through the trees, even this far north. Which means the transformation would most likely begin just before sunrise. I spoke to the village mage—”

“Velhad has a mage?” Eist was surprised, but then realized he wasn't actually that surprised.

“Every village has a mage, whether they admit it or not. Now _please_ stop interrupting.” She huffed a bit, fixing him with a mildly exasperated stare. He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, unable to stop himself from grinning. It seemed quite fitting, her little aura of smug know-it-all, and he liked the look of it on her. She tamped down a smile and returned her focus to the map, “Now the mage says sunrise was just before six o’clock. Which means our little shapeshifter had roughly five hours to transform, attack here, then travel nearly eight miles and attack again, all before beginning to transform back.”

“Not impossible.” Eist pointed out, leaning forward to truly scrutinize the distance and terrain in question. Werewolves were faster than humans, with better stamina. Not impossible at all, if timed just right.

“No,” she agreed. “But damn exhausting if it did.”

Calanthe turned to fully face Eist, body jolting in surprise at just how close he was, leaning in to see the map.

“Oh,” she heard herself say softly, like an absolute idiot. She felt a flame ripple across her chest (she missed him, missed having him this close to her).

Eist glanced over, amusement lining his blue eyes. Then he nodded towards the map again. “Maybe it’s just a very hungry beast. Or maybe we’re dealing with more than one.”

She shrugged at that. “Even if it’s more than one, they usually hunt in packs.”

He gave a hum of agreement. She desperately tried not to remember similar sounds, in entirely different settings. She watched him scan over the map as he noted, “I see you’ve numbered the attack locations.”

“As best I could, given what little we know about what happened, during the winter.” She cleared her throat a bit. Gods dammit, she shifted just a little closer. Like a magnet, as always, pulling into his body with hers ( _two weeks, two weeks, two weeks…_ oh, how she’d felt every second of every day of it). But she tamped down the urge and focused on her work. “I thought…well, winter time, it would be harder to cover ground—even for a supernatural creature. So if we can better clarify the order of the first attacks, we’ll have a better idea of where the monster started. Might help us narrow down a hunting ground.”

Eist's gaze shifted back up to her face as she continued frowning at the map. The little line at the corner of her mouth begged to be kissed, the rest of her face overlain with a seriousness and concentration that was distracting beyond measure.

“You’re quite brilliant, you know that?” He announced softly, before he could really stop himself.

She blinked at that, looking up at him in soft surprise. Then, entirely true to her nature, she pointed out, “I’m…just being practical and methodical, Hound. No need to fawn over basic common sense.”

Still, there was something tinging her tone. Something almost pleased, in a soft, sweet way. Her gaze slipped away, as if suddenly shy. She seemed to glow a bit, tamping down the corners of her mouth as if holding back a smile. She _liked_ it. It only pushed him further.

“I’m merely stating facts,” he informed her. He leaned in, just a little. “If I were fawning, I would say that you’re very pretty, when you’re busy being brilliant.”

She huffed, unable to find a retort. She glanced over at him again, to find him watching her with shining eyes and a lopsided little grin that was almost…fearful.

 _Pretty_. She felt like an absolute child, how easily she blushed at the soft way he said the word. _Brilliant_ , he’d said, just as reverently. She flicked her gaze away, fighting back a smile and losing miserably. “Flattery will only get you so far, Hound.”

“How far?” He teased, fully expecting her to retort back with a most-likely scathing quip. But she blinked, and he was caught by the suddenness of her gaze returning to his. Then her dark eyes slid lower, to his mouth. The world quietly shifted.

The question hung in the air for a heartbeat. Calanthe glanced back up, meeting searing blue eyes again, as teasing and playful as ever—but with a tinge of something new, something so full of hope and adoration.

“Quite far.” She swallowed the lump in her throat, her brain catching up to realize that she’d said those words aloud, for him to hear ( _idiot idiot idiot, you’re only making it worse, he’s going to see how obviously enamored you are, what a hopeless, helpless mess you are, you lovesick little fool_ ).

“Far enough for a kiss?”

It took her another beat to realize his hand was on her waist, still light, still seeking permission.

“We shouldn’t,” she said, suddenly a bit breathless. Yet even as she said it, she was leaning in, seeking him out, her eyes already locked onto his mouth again and skin already warming at the thought of tasting it again. A simple kiss wouldn’t hurt (it was never simple, never just a kiss). She heard her own voice amending, “We shouldn’t…let it go too far.”

 _Idiot_ , her mind screamed. _You know damn well it will._

“We won’t,” he assured her. His other hand was coming to her jaw, fingertips lightly holding her in place. “I just…need to do one thing, and I will be content.”

His lips barely brushed against the corner of her mouth, just past it. She felt every ounce of breath shakily leaving her lungs as her eyes closed involuntarily.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, before slightly retreating. “I just—I’ve spent nearly two weeks wanting to do that, and I couldn’t resist anymore.”

 _But I didn’t—I didn’t charm you_ , her mind swirled in confusion. Every other time that Eist had approached her, had touched her, it had been because she’d wanted it, wanted _him_ so desperately that she was certain that her charm pulled at him, practically compelled him to do it. But…she _hadn’t_ tried, hadn’t even _thought_ of trying to seduce him and he’d…just done it anyways.

“No, it’s—I don’t—it was…nice.” She fumbled for the words. Heat flooded her cheeks, entirely from embarrassment at her own inability to speak. But apparently she also couldn’t stop herself from speaking: “Two weeks?”

He hummed in confirmation, the sound slipping down and settling with warm weight inside her chest. Then he stepped back, giving her air and distance. His fingertips lingered on her jaw just a second more before almost-regretfully retreating.

Eist simply took a beat to watch her. She wasn’t looking at him, her cheeks flushed and her breathing still a little shaky—but she didn’t seem upset. If anything, she seemed…a little wonderstruck.

He almost wanted to apologize again, except he didn’t actually regret it. But he wanted to say something, anything to make her speak again, to make her look at him again.

“Alright?” He asked quietly. “Or was it…too much?”

There was something small and pained in the way he said _too much_. It made Calanthe close her eyes again.

“It really was…lovely,” she assured him. And it was. It was soft and it was kind and it was…simple. Simply lovely.

It was also the first time he’d ever touched her first, without her having to actively use her charms on him, or having to give an explicit indication or invitation. The thought put a little stone of worry in her stomach (her mother, she was still her mother’s child, too—had she become unstable, had she learned to use her charm without even knowing, was she pulling at him now, without any conscious effort?).

Eist nodded back to the map. “This _is_ brilliant, by the way. So, have you gotten it narrowed down to a general area?”

“Not quite,” she admitted, blinking quickly as she tried to recalibrate, to focus back on the task at hand. “But once we add in the new information, we might be able to….”

She trailed off, a little distracted by glancing up to study Eist’s profile as he simply scanned the map.

“Why did you do that?” She finally pushed, the curiosity too great. She realized the need to clarify and stumbled a bit over her own words, “Kiss me— _kissed_ me, why did you kiss me?”

He blinked hard, but didn’t meet her gaze. Quietly, he answered, “Because I just…wanted to.”

“Like that? Just…like that?” Her chest tightened _. Like that—soft and mundane and perfectly wonderful, the way people kiss when they love someone, love something, simply love?_

Eist gave a small nod. Then he looked back up at her and softly echoed, “Just like that.”

Those eyes. They’d be the death of her.

It truly didn’t make sense. _I’ve spent nearly two weeks wanting to do that_ , he’d said. But that was impossible. Because for two weeks, she’d been intentionally pulling back, quashing those urges and burying those feelings. And Eist…had been impassive and unaffected (hadn’t he?). At times, it had truly been as if they were simply still as they were, in the years before, simply just friends, with no history, no attraction between them whatsoever.

But his confession turned everything on its head. Because apparently, she’d still let some of those desires slip, had let her charm still push out to him unconsciously, and apparently, he hadn’t been as unaffected as he’d seemed.

Even for all the urges and wants she’d felt over the past two weeks, she’d never wished for something _like that_.

Eist watched the various vague expressions flitter across Calanthe’s face. She looked…bereft, in a way. Confused and curious and hopeful and terrified, all at the same time. He was used to her contradictions—but he’d never grow to easily accept the look in her eyes when she was afraid.

She didn’t love him. She was beginning to realize how he truly felt about her, and it terrified her—because she didn’t feel the same. His stomach coiled with anxiety. He’d always known that his love for her was one-sided; he’d easily accepted it and moved on. But now, to see just how deeply unrequited it was—it still hurt.

“But…” She blinked. “But I didn’t want you to do that.”

His heart immediately felt a pang. He flooded with guilt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that.” Her words were quick, emphatic. Softly, she added, “I meant—I didn’t compel you to do it.”

He huffed at that, finally looking up at her again with wry amusement at her obvious attempt to lighten the situation (and yes, it was true, she wasn’t using her charm—but it only made it more laughable, the idea that she could look like that and still think that she needed some kind of magical power to make him want her, even if she said it only in jest). His heart surged with relief—if she was trying to make jokes, then they were alright. He hadn’t pushed too far, hadn’t forced her into something she didn’t truly want.

Maybe she didn’t know, he realized. She was still looking at him, not looking away, not moving away. Still confused and curious. No, she didn’t know, then. She was confused because for all the passion they’d shared, he’d never been quite this tender, he’d never touched her without invitation or with anything less than direct intention (and those intentions had always been distinctly physical, rather than emotional). She didn’t know yet. He hadn’t let his messy heart ruin things (yet).

He really didn’t know, Calanthe realized with a flash of dread. She’d always been able to feel the pull of his charm, had always been able to tell when it was working on her, even when he wasn’t actively trying to seduce her (though she had to admit, those times were far less often than the times he was actively trying, these days). And she’d always assumed that he’d felt something similar from her charm.

Maybe it was different, with dragons. Or maybe she was more sensitive to it than he was.

Maybe she was truly her father’s daughter. Maybe this had never been as mutual as she’d thought. Maybe she’d always compelled him, to the point that he couldn’t even realize he’d been charmed and controlled—and now, apparently, she was doing it without any conscious effort on her part.

Of course, she’d been craving his touch, craving his tenderness. Maybe that’s why he’d given her the little token of affection—she’d unwittingly pulled at that cord, in some way.

She just…needed to understand. This was new information, the idea that he could still react this way to her, whenever she wasn’t actively using her charms to _make_ him react this way. She needed more details, to better understand, to clarify. This was a new puzzle that needed to be solved immediately, because it could greatly impact every other aspect of their lives.

“And you are…content? Truly? To just…leave it like that?”

He stilled at that. Quietly, he ventured, “Isn’t that what you want?”

 _What you want._ Oh, he didn’t know how those words felt against her skin, just sharp enough to draw blood. Was this what she’d wanted? Had she made all this happen—all of this, from the very beginning, all those years ago—simply because she’d wanted? Had his wants ever been shown or seen?

Eist could feel the odd energy humming off her in waves, the slight shift in her breathing and the way she leaned in, just a fraction. He felt the same intuitive ripple he’d felt that morning in the river—something new was on the horizon, something different.

He’d gladly give her whatever she wanted, no matter what it was. Especially when she looked at him like that—like he held some key, some answer to the unspoken questions in her eyes, like he was a life raft amid the waves. In this moment, he wasn’t entirely sure what she wanted (wasn’t sure at all, wasn’t sure she knew, either), so he willed himself to stay still, to not make a move in either direction, to let her choose, as always, what path they would take.

Eist seemed to be waiting. For a command, her mind thought, and Calanthe’s heart clenched in fear again. To be told what to do, to be compelled into action. She felt the prick of tears behind her eyes as she leaned in, just slightly, heart pounding in her ears and stomach beginning to roil with anxiety. It was hard to push out the words, to barely whisper, “Can you, for once, just do what _you_ want?”

Eist had to blink, to clear his mind, to be sure he had heard her correctly. While he was keenly aware of the current rules in-place, he genuinely had no problem breaking them—so long as she was just as willing to break them, too.

“Can you just…do whatever else you’ve been wanting to do, for the past two weeks?” She added. Maybe she was still technically compelling him into action, but at least she was leaving it more open to choice.

Eist felt his entire body tighten at her words, at the breathy anticipation lining them. She leaned in a bit more, and he couldn’t do anything but answer the call.

He let his left hand come back up, lightly cupping her jaw. She closed her eyes and leaned into the touch, drawing his attention to line of her neck again—he leaned in and tested his teeth against it. She gave a soft gasp and all his hesitation fell away. His right hand returned to her waist, pulling her closer as he continued kissing and nipping down to her collarbone. She leaned into him, her hands grasping at his shoulders as she pulled herself further into his arms. She turned her head slightly, the edge of her mouth catching his left palm with a small, tender kiss of encouragement.

Then she dipped her head, bringing her lips close to his ear. “Downstairs—the apothecary, they can hear almost everything. These floors creak and the walls are thin as paper.”

Important note, he realized. It was the middle of the day and yes, he could hear the low rumble of conversation in the shop below—and more importantly, he wanted Calanthe to feel safe enough to allow this to continue.

He placed another solid kiss on her collarbone and pulled away slightly. Shifted to stand directly in front of her, between her knees. Then he gently took her face in his hands again and leaned in. He kissed the corners of her mouth, the tip of her nose, the space between her brows. Each mark was left with absolute tenderness, the kind that sent flights of shivers across her skin and down her spine.

Calanthe’s mind swirled in absolute chaos and confusion.

This. _This_ is what he’d thought about, for nearly two weeks? Simply…kissing her, in the smallest, softest ways?

 _I didn’t want you to do this_ , she thought numbly. Granted she very much enjoyed it and very much wanted him to continue doing it _now_ —but she’d never wished for such things, had never even allowed herself to imagine them. So this was not the residual workings of her own charms. This was…Eist. What he truly wanted. How he truly wanted her.

The realization hit her like a tidal wave. Her immediate response was terror. She began to shake. Nothing made sense anymore. None of it.

Eist stopped slightly, obviously noticing her sudden shift. She clutched his wrists, kept his hands on her face as she leaned in, trying to bring his lips back to her forehead.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed. “Just…keep showing me.”

She wanted to see. She needed to see. Needed to understand again. Needed clarity. Needed him. Needed the softness of his touch.

Eist gladly obeyed, tilting her chin up to properly kiss her. His hand slipped to the back of her neck as his tongue slid past her teeth and the feeling of rolling, tumbling under a wave crashed through her entire being.

She forced herself not to wrap her arms around his neck. Not to push or pull or do anything to upset the balance of the moment. It had to be him, whatever happened.

Calanthe was still trembling, and Eist was beginning to sense that it wasn’t from passion. He finally pulled back, far enough away to truly look into her face and read her expression.

It offered no clarity. She was watching him, in a mixture of confusion and curiosity and a tinge of fear.

“We don’t have to do this,” he said quietly, his heart breaking a little at the thought that somehow, despite her previous reassurances, she was only _allowing_ this, but not truly _wanting_ it. “Of all the things I want—I want them to be what you want, too.”

She blinked, swallowed hard. “I do…want. Of course I do, I—I just don’t understand.”

“Don’t understand what?”

“How you…how you could want this.”

His frown deepened. “Why _wouldn’t_ I want this?”

“Because I didn’t…make you want this.” She could feel the swelling uneasiness, the bile surging up her throat, the invisible fist tightening around her neck.

He blinked at that. His handsome face filled with confusion. “No, you didn’t make me. You’ve never _made_ me. It’s just…natural.”

Oh. He really didn’t know. He’d never known. Her heart broke at the realization ( _this_ , this is why she never asked, why they never talked about it, this was the thing she’d always feared, and now that the moment was here, she had to do the right thing, she had to break it apart, and now that the moment was here, she knew she’d break apart, too).

The very first night they’d been together, she’d charmed him. She knew she had; she’d done it intentionally. But she’d always thought he knew—she’d misread his smile, had misinterpreted it because it was what she’d wanted to be true. Every time after that, it had been…expected, almost. She thought it was a nice and easy way of signaling her intentions, without having any awkward conversation. And she’d felt his charm in turn, so…she had assumed that was his way of confirming it.

Somehow, it wasn’t that anymore. It never had been. She’d just been controlling him from the start, compelling him into doing whatever she wanted.

It had to stop. They had to stop. _She_ had to stop ( _awful, wicked, abhorrent thing, no better than she’d been bred to be, every inch her father’s daughter, manipulative and mind-bending, cruel, willful creature_ ).

Her heart was hammering in her chest. She felt like she might cry, felt a little breathless, and not in a good way. “All the times before, I…I _charmed_ you, Eist. I’m sorry, I didn’t always mean to. I thought—well, you did the same to me, and I thought you knew, and I was afraid, but it seemed…even. And then, now, you’re—I didn’t _try_ to charm you. I wasn’t trying, I promise, I wasn’t and yet—”

She stopped for air, taking a sharp, shuddering little gasp. Her throat clenched shut completely, already far too overwhelmed by everything she’d confessed. _Monster_. She truly was a monster. Her father’s daughter, and now also her mother’s—because now she was losing control, now she was unaware of her own self and her own actions, now it was to the point that she could command him without any conscious effort at all.

He was staring at her in absolute bewilderment. “Calanthe…what the hell?”

Her chest contracted painfully. Oh, he was beginning to realize. He was going to be angry, as he rightly should be.

“Do you—do you not…Calanthe, how do you think creatures of charm work?”

She blinked at that. At the obvious implication in the phrasing. Her poor brain was truly overwrought at this point. Numbly, she said, “Dragons…they can control your mind, Eist. You know that.”

“Yes, dragons can.” With a lift of his brows, he pointed out, “So can sirens.”

“So…when you felt…those things, when you wanted to do those things to me—most of that was me.” She felt the flush in her cheeks, all the way to the tips of her ears. “It was me…pushing my own desires onto you, and pushing you to act, to give in.”

Now he was smiling softly. Not the reaction she’d been expecting.

“Calanthe,” he said her name like a caress. “Calanthe, you are the daughter of a dragon, but you’re not a full-blown dragon. You can charm people, but…they have to willingly _accept_ your charms.”

“What?” Her brain reeled again. She went through all of her memories, of all the times she’d used her powers. Granted, she hadn’t actually known about them until her twenties, and while Tissaia had helped, no one had ever really shown her how to wield them. No one had taught her the specifics of how it worked or why. She'd never been able to find writings on the subject, as most people did not survive encounters with dragons, and fewer still actually produced offspring with them.

“Surely there were times when it didn’t work,” Eist pointed out softly.

“Not really,” she admitted. “I don’t use charm that often. It requires…a calmer head.”

He huffed in amusement at that.

“I _can_ be charming when I _want_ to,” she reiterated, with a slight furrow of her brows.

“Of course you can,” he returned. “But more often than not, you want to fight instead.”

He said it so sweetly, so full of endearing affection. She couldn’t hold on to her anger.

Eist’s heart was swirling with competing emotions. It was sweet, her concern and chagrin. It was heartbreaking, her belief that somehow, she was ever capable of being so callous and cruel.

There was a lot to unpack between them, he realized. Her views on how her own powers worked had obviously affected her view on their connection—now all her opinions from previous conversations made perfect sense, and now all he wanted was to prove them wrong, in the kindest, softest way.

He set his hands on her hips. “I have felt your charm, countless times. And I have been charmed by you, almost just as many times. But _every_ time, I had to willingly choose to let it work on me. And even when I did, everything I did during it were things I had wanted to do, long before you tried to charm me.”

Her face twisted in confusion as she blinked rapidly, trying to process this new information. By that same token, all of her impulses, all of her desires while in his presence, were entirely her own, too.

 _Oh_.

“And if you have ever felt charmed by me, then it was because you allowed me to do the same,” he pointed out softly, only further confirming her epiphany.

She cleared her throat, sobering slightly under the realization, “So this…”

“Is just me, wanting you. As I have for years, no mind control needed.” His voice was low and warm, weighted with amused affection. She couldn’t stop the corners of her mouth from curling into a slow smile.

Eist scanned over every conversation they’d had, in the years since this began. They’d never really discussed their connection until two weeks ago, at the river. No wonder Calanthe had thought their actions were inevitable—because she thought that by simply wanting them to be, she’d commanded him and made it so.

And that realization sent another wave of warmth through his veins. Every time they had been together, she’d truly, deeply wanted him, to the point that she thought she’d used her own powers to pull him into her arms. Everything he’d done to her, with her, had been exactly what she’d wanted, in some way—exactly what she’d wanted, quite deeply. He felt a measure of pride and delight at the thought.

“Oh,” she said softly.

“Oh,” he repeated, leaning in to bring their noses together. Quietly, he added, “Though if you did have any commands you’d like to issue, I assure you, I’d still follow them to the letter, quite gladly.”

She huffed in amusement at that, and he felt some of the tension leave her frame. Poor, sweet thing. Years now, she’d convinced herself that this couldn’t be anything more than some side-effect of her own powers, intermingling with his. That somehow, they hadn’t any true choice in the matter.

“Besides.” He gave her a quick kiss, feeling his smile widen. “Do you really think I had the power to control your mind, _ever_ , in any scenario?”

She hummed, tilting her chin up slightly, chasing his mouth with her own. “Honestly, I just assumed I was stronger than you.”

“Of course you would,” he chuckled softly at the thought.

Now she allowed her arms to wrap around his neck, her hands to slide into his hair and lightly tug at his dark curls, holding him in place as she fixed him with a slightly reprimanding look. “I believe the correct response is _of course you are_.”

Her lungs were still shaking with relief. A weight had been lifted, even as the world still spun on its side. For all the ways that she was a wicked, willful thing, this wasn’t one of them. He was still smiling down on her, and it felt like a benediction, a forgiveness for sins she’d never actually committed, but one she accepted all the same.

“Calanthe.”

“Hmm?” She let her fingertips stroke against the back of his neck. _Chosen_. He’d chosen to be here. Chosen to be with her. Chosen her, in some small way.

“All these years…you truly thought you were controlling me.” His eyes were twinkling now, pure mischief. “And that never actually stopped you from continuing to do it anyway?”

“Well.” Her throat tightened, her mouth went a little drier. “I wasn't _entirely_ sure. It’s just—well, you were charming me, too. And I thought, at least that meant it was…mutual. That is was alright, in a way. That you…did want to be controlled.”

He was grinning wickedly now. “I take it back. You truly are a full-blown dragon.”

Her expression broke into something pained, and his heart felt an immediate pang of regret.

“Don’t ever say that. Please.” Her voice was so small, so small and fragile, just like the look in her big brown eyes.

“I won’t,” he promised softly, words lined with sincerity. He wanted to rush in and fill the cracks he’d just created, feeling a measure of chagrin for finally setting them right, only to stumble again. “I’m sorry, if—”

She shook her head, ending his words with her mouth against his. She slid closer to the edge of the table, pulling their bodies together and deepening the kiss. His hands gripped her hips tighter, sending a rush of heat through her core.

He thought of her look, when Eava had retreated, the night before. The hurt and fear in her expression.

What a complex thing she was. Both proud and ashamed of her monstrous inheritance, unendingly fierce and self-assured while simultaneously fearful and hesitant. Remorseless and regretful, sharp and soft, brilliantly intuitive and yet so blindingly unaware of her own self.

How could he not love her, all the more? All the more deeply, all the more fiercely—all of her, so much more?

Eist pulled back slightly, peppering kisses along the line of her jaw, down her neck again. Calanthe closed her eyes, still feeling the overwhelming exhaustion of relief.

None of this was wrong. Never had been. Eist chose this, chose her, just as she did—

Her brain jolted at the realization again. All the thoughts she’d had, the emotions she’d felt—those weren’t Eist, using his siren charms to pull her under. Every thought, every feeling, was entirely her own.

Even the moments when she thought she loved him.

Again, the sense of terror filled her veins. That hadn’t been a trick, some impulse he drew out of her. It had been real.

It _was_ real, still. Her heartbeat sped up, the pounding pulse in her ears nearly drowning out all else.

 _I love you,_ she thought, in dumbstruck wonder _. I love you—not because I’m commanded to or charmed into feeling this way. I love you, just because I do. Because you’re you and I love you._

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, sharp and hot. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She wanted…something, anything, everything.

She wanted Eist. Wanted him to want her.

“Please.” She dipped her head forward, pressing her cheek against his own. “Will you—please, show me exactly how you want me.”

“Is that a command or a request?” He teased warmly, turning a little more into her, nipping the pulse point beneath her jaw.

“Yes,” she returned simply. He chuckled softly in response. His hands moved, slowly unbuckling the belt around her waist before untying the stays of her doublet. He kept leaning in, punctuating his actions with kisses and nuzzles against her nose with his own. She returned the tokens of affection, but kept her hands on his shoulder, sometimes stroking up his neck in encouragement. She brought her arms down so that he could slide the doublet off, then raised them so that he could remove her linen shirt underneath. His fingers slid around, finding the end of the cloth that bound her chest and slowly unraveling it.

For that part, he stood back slightly, focused on his task—though his eyes still smiled as he watched more of her breasts come into view.

“This is actually my favorite part,” he admitted with a grin.

“Of course it is,” she returned drolly.

“Not just because of your tits—which are _always_ a more-than-welcome sight, let me add.” He glanced up to meet her gaze, eyebrows lifting slightly to show his sincerity. She smirked in knowing agreement. Then his expression shifted to something a little less playful, something a little softer and more affectionate. “But just…watching you slowly transform into something even softer. It’s…beautiful.”

Her throat was so tight that she struggled to take in air. He finally finished unwrapping her, setting the linen strips aside to simply place his hands on her waist again, staring at her in soft wonder.

“See?” He breathed. “Absolutely beautiful.”

He could see the sudden added flush to the beautiful chest in question, and his delight only grew. He leaned in, letting his tongue relish the warmth of her skin, tracing over the lines left by the strips of linen. She made a soft little strangled sound, and he remembered her earlier warning about being quiet.

He’d never really known her to be a quiet thing, truth be told. But he was more than willing to see it.

Calanthe was clenching her jaw so tightly that she felt a pang radiating down her neck—but no way in hell was she going to do anything to stop the man currently kissing his way over her left breast, the stubble of his beard pulling across her skin and shooting more sparks through her veins. She was trying so hard not to make any noise, to the point she was only allowing herself to take small breaths, almost hyperventilating.

 _I love you_ , she wanted to scream, to shriek loud enough to wake the dead. _You’re absolutely murdering me and I love you, you impossible thing._

His teeth came out to play, capturing her nipple, and she very nearly blurted it all out, then and there. Instead she dipped her head and slowly let out a long, low moan. When she was able to open her eyes again, she found sparkling blue ones watching her with playful fascination.

She wanted to laugh. Her mouth was already smiling so widely that it hurt. _Wicked wicked thing, how I love you._

She couldn’t stop her hand from ruffling into his hair again, encouraging him as he truly began to work on her breast, biting and sucking and adding swirls of his tongue. It became too much and she leaned further in, holding on to his head as her body shivered and trembled. His hand came to cover her other breast, kneading and teasing her further, sending more waves through every inch of her.

She heard herself whispering his name, but couldn’t stop it from repeating, over and over. It seemed to encourage him, because he nuzzled into the space between her breasts again, tightening his grip on her waist to hold her in place. Then his hands slid back around, fumbling to untie her breeches. She braced her hands behind her, leaning back enough to make it a little easier.

Calanthe was still watching his face with rapt fascination. Once her breeches were undone, Eist let himself simply stare into those wide and wanting eyes, his left hand slipping around her waist and pulling her closer again—even with his layers of clothing between them, he could feel the heat of her body, the way her bare skin nearly seared his left palm as he pressed into the small of her back.

He dipped forward, resting his forehead against hers and watching her breathtakingly dark eyes as his right hand slipped into her breeches, into the wet heat of her cunt. She made a small little sound at the push of his fingers inside her, her hands immediately gripping onto his shoulders again. He curled his fingers, just enough, and he grinned at the way her body jolted in response. He let his thumb lazily find its way to her clit, pressing in and watching her shift and squirm some more. She rose up a little, her nose bumping against his as her eyes remained locked onto his, not even blinking.

 _Show me exactly how you want me_. That had been her command. Pushing past the tightness in his throat, he quietly spoke, “This. This is exactly how I want you.”

Her lips pressed into a hard line as her chest skittered with a suppressed noise—he felt her fingertips flex harder into him and her muscles tighten around his fingers.

Her mouth was opening again, soft with wonder.

The exact same way she’d looked at him, that morning by the stream, that last night at the tavern.

 _Most of that was me_ —she’d confessed more than she knew, he realized. By admitting that she thought she was the driving force behind his passion and his desire, she was also confessing the depth of her own towards him.

His heart thudded and skittered wildly at the thought. All this time, she may have genuinely thought she was stronger—but she'd also thought that she cared more, wanted more, needed him more than he ever did her.

 _Impossible_ , his mind screamed. That she should ever think that, even for a moment— _absolutely criminal._

He’d gladly prove her wrong, he thought. He still wasn’t entirely sure this was actually happening, that it wasn’t some hallucination, some trick of his love-sick, sleep-deprived brain.

But no, it had to be real— _she_ was real, almost too-hot and solid beneath (around) his fingertips, holding on to him with a sense of desperation as she tried to hold back more noises in her chest, softly knocking her head against his collarbone as another shiver ran through her body. His left arm wrapped around her fully, pulling her chest more firmly against his, holding her closer as his right hand continued stroking and pushing inside her. She burrowed her cheek against his chest, her hands shifting to slide under his arms and around to his shoulder blades, digging into his flesh and encouraging him. She was moaning a bit more now, turning her face into his chest to muffle the sounds. He dipped his head forward, let his lips brush against her ear.

“Exactly like this,” he repeated thickly, placing a light kiss on the shell of her ear. And it was utter truth—he wanted her, just this soft and open, wanted her wanting him just this much, wanted her trusting him just this much, wanted her falling apart for him because she knew it was what he wanted, too.

Calanthe nearly imploded at the small touch, already overwhelmed by his other touches. She pressed her mouth so deeply against his chest that her lips cut on her own teeth as she tried to suppress another sound, this one far higher-pitched than before.

Her head was still spinning. He could have done anything, and she would have gladly let him—but given the chance to do just that, he’d chosen to focus simply on her. He wasn’t already inside her, wasn’t gaining any physical pleasure from the moment—aside from what was influenced entirely by an emotional connection.

She’d told him to do what he wanted, and this was it: to give, to her. Her mind went back to their last encounter, how he’d watched her from the stream as he’d stroked himself, the quiet way he’d asked: _is that what you want?_

Her eyes squeezed shut and her body melted into release, rolling, tumbling further into his hands as she pressed her mouth further into his chest, practically crying with want and relief. His right hand stayed inside her, taking slower, deeper beats to push through the last pulses of her orgasm. His left came up to the back of her neck, gently stroking across the hot skin and pushing a cooling sensation through his fingertips. She held on tighter, nuzzled into him some more, turning her head to the side to simply keep her cheek against his chest, feeling the steady pulse of his heart beneath his shirt.

He shifted slightly, kissing her temple. She closed her eyes and this time, very nearly let the tears escape.

 _Oh, I love you_ , her heart breathed. His hand slipped out of her slowly, and somehow, even that simple action was lined with such care and affection. Her heart fluttered again at the thought.

Eist cared about her, she knew that much. She’d known that for ages—they were friends, after all. And of course, now she knew beyond all doubt that the sense of attraction was mutual. But did it go beyond that? She wasn’t sure. Then again, she’d never really seen what love looked like, what it should look like—how could she recognize something she’d never been shown?

It didn’t matter, she realized. Nothing could change how _she_ felt.

She loved him.

She may not know what it looked like, when someone loved her, but she knew how it felt, when she loved someone. Knew the ache and the adoration and the heaviness of all the caring—and it all came crashing down around her, in a blink of actualization.

She wasn’t entirely ready for the words to be out there, though. She needed more time to truly let it settle into her own bones before throwing it upon his. Besides, what would he say, what would he do, if he knew? She wasn’t sure. Wasn’t sure she was ready to know, either.

So instead, she lifted her chin, pushing her nose against the side of his neck and simply sighing gratefully. She could just enjoy this moment, just allow herself to feel what she felt, without having to announce and dissect and digress. She could just enjoy _him_.

After a beat, she asked, “Is that all you have to show me?”

She felt his chest rumbling against her cheek, shaking with barely-voiced laughter. She grinned as well, feeling a wash of delight simply upon hearing his.

“We haven’t even scratched the surface,” he assured her warmly. She hummed at that. Still, he pointed out, “It is the middle of the afternoon. There are still people downstairs.”

“Show me quietly, then,” she shifted, clutching the front of his doublet and rising up, just enough to pull him into a kiss, languid and filled with honey-warmth. She slid forward, off the edge of the table, slowly toeing off her boots to pad on silent feet towards the bedroom.

Eist watched her, a bit transfixed. She reached the edge of the bed and removed the rest of her clothing with a slowly theatrical flair, making quite a show of doing it all as quietly as possible, sparkling-eyed and playful.

He merely grinned like a fool as he watched her. Then she sat on the bed and slowly pulled herself further back, towards the headboard. Leaned back and waited, with a smirk.

Obviously, he was meant to return the favor. It took every ounce of self control not to bolt straight to her. He made his way to the bed, careful of his footsteps, feeling another wash of giddy, almost childish delight at the way she shifted and grinned at his approach.

It was a game, of sorts. No words exchanged, mere glances and smiles. He undressed, taking moments to look up and catch her eye. By the time he’d finished, she’d been biting her bottom lip so much that it was practically gnawed to the point of blood—and gods above, he couldn’t help but love it, love her, love how much she wanted him. He started at the end of the bed, crawling towards her, and all her restraint broke. She nearly lunged to meet him, barely pulling herself back enough to keep from rattling the bedframe, still reaching for him, hands pulling his face into hers for a kiss. She hummed into his mouth with such warm delight that he couldn’t help but softly laugh.

Then she was lightly pushing at his shoulder, guiding him to lay down. Despite her request that he show her exactly how he wanted her, Eist got the distinct impression that Calanthe’s wants were about to be on display (and oh, how he did not mind that, not one bit).

Once he was fully on his back, she was straddling him, guiding him inside her with a bright, breathless smile that was nearly as mind-blowing as the electric feeling of sliding into her again.

She leaned forward, letting her hands slip up his chest, fingers splayed wide as she tried to touch as much of him as possible. She gave a roll of her hips and the bed creaked slightly. Her eyes widened, brows instantly shooting up in surprise.

“This is going to be even more difficult than I thought,” she admitted with a whisper.

“We can—move to the floor, or—”

“No, no, you know I do so love a challenge.”

He huffed softly at that. Her wolfish grin widened. She slowly shifted her hips, expression becoming distracted as she concentrated on finding just how much she could move, how much force she could use without making the bed complain. One particularly deep swivel had the frame squeaking again, and she made a small huff of surprise, her expression turning adorably chagrined.

She was the cutest thing he’d ever seen, he thought warmly, tightening his hold on her hips. Open and playful and soft as fucking hell, in more ways than he’d ever seen her.

He suddenly realized that all this time, for all the vulnerability and softness she’d shown before, she’d still been holding back. Still been hesitant, afraid of being too much.

She _was_ too much, and it was wonderful.

Eventually, Calanthe found the boundaries of her movements, pushing her hips with small, gentle rhythms that still slowly pulled tension through his body, building at a pace that was far more leisurely than they’d ever set before.

It gave him more time—more time to simply enjoy her, the feeling of her atop him, around him, beneath his hands as he slowly mapped out the sides of her hips and the curve of her waist, as he teased her breasts and traced the line of her collarbone.

She leaned into his touches, giving him better access, her own hands softly stroking over what parts of him that she could reach without disturbing his hands or further hindering her limited movements.

Then she simply took his left wrist with her right hand, leaning in to nuzzle against his palm, placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss across it, the soft gusts of her breathing sending ripples of fire down his arm.

His palm. The very one Vanielle had read his fate upon, the very lines Calanthe’s teeth were slowly sinking into, with a soft sense of delighted reverence, gentle but still with enough force to show just how much she was holding back.

_Both what has come to pass and what has not yet been—you will know deep love, and deep loss. You will know the love of a thousand suns, and the fear of a moon._

His heart froze at the thought. If this was the beginning of something more, something deeper with Calanthe—something he had almost wished for, had fear not held him back—then it could also be the beginning of deep loss.

The loss of her, in some way.

He let his hand push further out of her grasp, slipping to the back of her neck and pulling her down into a kiss, his entire being filling with a sudden sense of fierce determination.

No, he thought. He couldn’t lose this, couldn’t lose her. She was arching, giving a warm, twittering noise of surprise as his tongue pushed further into her mouth, one hand planted on his chest and flexing into his flesh with delight. His other hand pulled at her hip, grinding her further into him and earning more delicious sounds that she pushed straight into his lungs. Her teeth were out to play now, nipping and biting his lip with a low growl as she began to work her hips faster.

“The frame,” he murmured, trying to listen for creaking over the pounding rush in his own ears.

“I know,” she breathed back. “Just—trust me.”

 _Of course_ , his brain replied, his tongue far too busy as her own dove back into his mouth, humming delightedly. Then she pulled back with a sharp inhale, eyes shining and lips bruised from the intensity of their kisses. She braced her hands on his chest again, keeping her eyes locked onto his as she put all of her effort into her hips, slowly drawing him in and out of her and swiveling with each push. He felt himself falling and simply let go, let his hands hold onto her hips for dear life, pulling her to just the right angle that had him shuddering and softly moaning in relief. He kept her there for a few moments more, slowly shifting her from side to side, enjoying every last fleeting aftershock.

She simply watched him, smiling affectionately.

He truly gave himself to her, Calanthe thought with a rush of adoration and soft surprise. Technically, it wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time that she truly understood just how freely he did so, just how actively he chose to open himself up to her.

 _I love you_ , she thought, yet again. Maybe it was still foolish, loving a creature designed to make her fall in love, but at least it was something she’d chosen, without being charmed into it. At least it was _real_.

Even if he never felt the same, Eist would never hurt her. That much she knew. Gingerly, she lifted up, being careful not to upset the bedframe as she shifted and came to lay down beside him. They both stayed like that, staring up at the ceiling.

“So.” Eist let the word hang in the air.

“So?” Calanthe echoed.

“That whole no-sex-during-the-job rule…”

She huffed softly at that. “In our defense, we did last two whole weeks. I think that’s a rather valiant effort.”

He hummed in agreement. Then, after taking a slight breath, he quietly asked, “So…if I wanted to occasionally just…kiss the corner of your mouth, because I like the little line that’s there—”

“What line? I don’t—”

“You do, it’s adorable and also extremely hot—I promise you, I spend way more time staring at your face than you do, so don’t waste your breath trying to say it doesn’t exist.”

She harrumphed at that, even as her chest filled with warmth at the thought of Eist simply staring at her, silently adoring all her little flaws.

“Anyways,” he began again, in a calm, unbothered tone. “If I wanted to just occasionally kiss you, would that be allowed?”

Her mouth hurt from twisting and fighting against her smile. “I suppose so. I mean, at this point, we’ve thrown our own rules out the window—who’s to say what’s allowed at this point?”

He hummed. Then added, “I still don’t want you to feel that…that things _have_ to change, just because they have, technically, in some way already.”

“I know you don’t,” she said simply. She let her hand shift across the bedclothes, her knuckles lightly bumping up against his own. She was still too afraid to look at him—afraid of what she might see reflecting back at her, afraid of what she might not. Afraid of him wanting things to change, afraid of him not.

Still, she blinked, swallowed hard, and pushed herself to speak. “You can…kiss me, whenever you want. You don’t have to wait for my permission or some kind of…signal, or invitation.”

“I do know how our charms work, and I have always known this was a choice,” he pointed out softly. “But I never…I never wanted to make you feel like we had to continue, simply because we had chosen to begin.”

She made a small noise of understanding. She thought of all the times before, all the ways he’d always waited, never made a move without knowing full well that it was what she wanted. She realized, suddenly, what compassion was in that simple gesture. Eist was still a siren, after all—regardless of how their powers worked, their natures were still real. The truth was that their charms were different. Hers were meant to control and manipulate, his were meant to inspire love and lust. And he’d known how his charms affected her, and he’d waited, letting her choose whether to accept those charms, and letting her choose whether to actually act upon the things she felt, when she did accept them.

 _Oh, I love you, you darling thing_ , her heart cried out. _You darling, sweet, kind thing, how I love you._

“How about this?” She kept her voice low, turning her face towards him, even as her eyes still shied away, choosing to land on the curve of his shoulder instead. “We can both just assume that, at any given moment, the other is…wanting this to continue and not under the mental control of the other. And act accordingly.”

“Act accordingly,” he echoed softly, as if testing the idea on his tongue. He turned to look at her, and she couldn’t stop her gaze from flicking up to meet his, her heart jolting at the sudden sensation of seeing and being seen by him.

With a slight grin, he echoed the question that had started this whole thing: “You really are quite brilliant, you know that?”

She beamed like the sun, dipping her head to nip the edge of his shoulder. _I really could just eat you up—you sweet, wonderful thing. I love you so very much._

Eist watched the sparkle in her eyes, the flush of her cheeks as she nuzzled against his shoulder, placing a kiss over the spot she’d bitten.

Brilliant, he thought again softly. She really was the most brilliant thing he’d ever seen. Like the light of a thousand suns.


	10. Broken from the Heart Out

**North Shore, An Skellig.**

Father still went out to sea with his own crew, for the first few months after Mother left. Then he grew sick, and had to stay home.

 _Heartsick_ , the women in the village decided amongst themselves, unaware of Eist eavesdropping. _A man broken from the heart out._

Father spent much of his time ignoring Sibba, who looked too much like _That Woman_ , and talking to Eist. He warned him against ever falling to the whims of the sea and its people.

 _She’ll sing a song and that’s all it takes, my boy. You’ll be gone, long before you even know it. She’ll take your heart and drown it, just as easy as blinking._ _That woman—never knew a thing beyond her own wants and whims, as ever. I don't know why I ever thought she could be loved out of her nature. Only made it worse, I think. T_ _hose types can’t love—they don’t know how, don’t know nothing but destruction and dragging souls into the deep._

Sometimes, after Father had finally gone to sleep, Sibba would wrap her arms around Eist and fiercely whisper in his ear: _Don’t listen to him. Mother loves us, in her own way._

But whatever way that was, it wasn’t enough to make her stay, Eist thought.


	11. Broken, Now Resetting

**Thirty-Seven Years Later.**

**Velhad, Kovir.**

Eist awoke with a slight flutter of confusion, rolling over to find his hands met with nothingness. He frowned and slowly opened his eyes, trying to determine how long he’d been asleep.

He could smell her still, in the air. Against his skin, where she’d bitten and sucked and kissed, at turns fervent and almost hesitant, fierce and soft, overwhelming and quietly barely-there. He could taste her still on his tongue, could feel the pressure of her teeth still against his bottom lip, which certainly had been bitten enough times over the course of the afternoon.

Despite the need for quieter forms of expression, they’d still spent the entire afternoon completely swept up in each other’s bodies. Eist felt like it had been the first time, all over again, but entirely different. There was a softness, a sense of joy that had been palpable.

A change had occurred between them. The thought filled him with both delight and fear. They’d finally broken and reset, into something better, something deeper.

But _something deeper_ wasn’t the same as _something that would last._

Of course he loved her. Almost always had. And long before today, he'd known it was irrevocable, in a quiet, steadfast way. But today he'd begun to let himself fully show it, even if still without words. And she…hadn’t turned away, hadn’t refused him or his obvious affection.

His mind replayed the soft, adoring look on her face, when she’d been atop him, so pleased and practically beaming. She’d worn that look again later, when he’d kissed and caressed her from forehead to ankle and back again—how she’d delighted in his tenderness, how she’d not only accepted it, but genuinely welcomed it, relished it with the kind of grin that twisted his heart in the best of ways.

Still. Just because she didn’t run, didn’t mean she'd always stay.

He looked around again. Her clothes were gone, the small double doors leading into the main room were closed. It was early evening, judging by the low light still filtering through the windows.

He sat up slowly, realizing that he actually felt better-rested than he had in nearly two weeks. Gingerly, he got out of bed and redressed. His stomach coiled with worry as he slowly opened the doors, unsure of what he might find.

Calanthe was there, pacing around the table with slow, methodical steps as she sliced off bits of an apple and ate it, her eyes still trained on the map.

Still working on her pattern, he realized with a flush of warm adoration. _Brilliant, beautiful thing._

She noticed him, looking up with wary eyes.

She wasn’t running ( _yet_ ), but he'd never dare ask her to stay. Never willingly do anything to make her look like that at him, uncertain and hesitant.

“Sleep well?” She asked, stopping her pacing to focus all of her attention on him.

He nodded. “How long was I out?”

“An hour. Maybe two. You needed it.”

He grinned, even though she wasn’t making a quip about their afternoon activities.

She nodded to the other end of the table, where some more apples sat. “One of the locals brought some ‘round. With some kind of cheese, but I wouldn’t necessarily trust it.”

The slight disdainful wrinkle of her nose only made his smile deepen.

“Can one be xenophobic against cheese?” He wondered aloud.

She huffed at that, rolling her eyes as the corner of her mouth curled into a smirk. “ _You_ smell it. Then come back to me with your snarky quips.”

He decided to cut out the middle step—he merely came back to her, moving around to table to simply stand in front of her, letting his fingertips brush back a wayward wisp of hair, ghosting over the shell of her ear.

She turned her head slightly and closed her eyes for a beat. He studied her reaction, trying to read it.

He opened his mouth to ask, but she spoke first: “Yes. It’s alright. You don’t always have to ask, remember?”

Still, he shrugged. “Maybe I just like hearing you confess that you like it.”

She ducked her head at that. “I would have thought I made that quite clear by now.”

“You have. Doesn’t mean I don’t still enjoy hearing to you say it.”

She turned slightly, almost pressing a kiss against his chest, but not quite. She suddenly seemed shy, overwhelmed, uncertain. She looked like he felt, and that made him a little less anxious in turn. It also only furthered his resolve to never try to trap her, to force her into anything beyond exactly what she wanted.

Still, her voice was as controlled and droll as ever, “I am _actually_ going to need your help on this, Hound. So if you could stop being a lazy, lecherous—”

“You could have woken me earlier—”

“No.” Her tone went soft again. “No, you needed the rest.”

Such a careful, caring thing. His heart tightened at the tenderness lining her words.

She shifted away, motioning towards the map again with the knife in her hand, which she’d been using on her apple. “I’ve almost got it down, I think. A general…timeline of when each attack occurred.”

“Right.” She did have a point. They did have a job to do. And Eist also had a bit of point to prove—there was no need for anything else to change between them, regardless of whatever had happened this afternoon. He moved around the table, grabbing an apple and the coming around to the other side to look down at the symbols and scribblings she’d made across the map. He glanced over the other papers as well, the lunar charts with notes scribbled beside recent full moons. The next full moon was circled.

Two nights from tonight.

She leaned forward, pointing to a location on the map, “Starting here, we know for certain what order the attacks occur, so we can roughly guess the order of the ones before—there’s a pattern, in the ones we do know. The houses along the ridge, almost in perfect order, and then…”

He followed the numbers dotting the mountain range. They went from a line to more of a zigzag.

“And the number of deaths seems to go up. At least in theory. With the whole winter-trapping-people-up-in-the-mountains-for-months-at-a-time aspect, we don’t rightly know who died first, or even when.”

“Right.” He frowned slightly, casting a glance over the map. The ones she was uncertain about—the attacks that happened before the villagers knew what was going on—had little symbols by them, obviously her own unique form of a question mark. “Zagradd’s never given us exact numbers, has he?”

“No.” She stilled at the thought.

“We have a few headcounts, based on what the villagers have mentioned,” he pointed out. “But we need to know the exact body counts for the first houses. Who should have been accounted for, and who actually was.”

She hummed in agreement. She understood his reasoning—if there were two (or gods forbid, more) therianthropes, they should be able to tell exactly when those numbers grew. It would also make finding them easier—they tended to stay close to their original human homes.

“We can ask Zagradd, after dinner tonight,” Calanthe decreed. He nodded in agreement.

A thoughtful silence ensued. Calanthe stared at the map; Eist stared at her.

She seemed fine, he decided. Hadn’t truly treated him any differently (and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing, truthfully). But she wasn’t avoiding his gaze or avoiding him, and that was what mattered.

They had changed, and they hadn’t. He still loved her, and she had given him permission to pour more of his affection over her, to show it in little ways outside of the bedroom— _that_ was the change, and he wasn’t sure how that would ultimately change things between them. He would hold himself back, he promised. Wouldn’t let it be too much, too overwhelming, too stifling. He wouldn’t ask her to stay, and he’d make the situation something that wouldn’t make her want to run away, either. He’d kept those impulses at bay for years now; he could marshal them back into something smaller and more manageable.

He hadn’t done that, this afternoon. Hadn’t worried about hiding the stars in his eyes or keeping his touches from being too full of adoration. He had simply let himself be open, entirely focused on proving a point: that for all the ways she affected him, she had never controlled or commanded his attraction to her, and that for all the ways she wanted him, he’d always wanted her just as much.

It still boggled his mind. That she could honestly think that he could take one look at her and _not_ want her, not without being compelled and charmed into it. It was like the woman had never stood in front of a mirror.

There was a light shuffling sound outside the door, followed by a soft knock, pulling both of their attention.

“Edya,” Calanthe guessed quietly. Being closest to the door (as well as knowing Calanthe wasn’t ever going to answer it anyways), Eist rose to his feet and went to open it. Calanthe was right—Zagradd’s eldest daughter was standing there, eyes a little wide as she informed them that she’d come to take them to supper.

She was a bit afraid of them, too, Eist realized. But he supposed it came with the territory. Edya had spent her whole life in this one little village, which was currently being terrorized by some monster in the night. And here were Calanthe and Eist, dark strangers with odd accents and more weapons than she’d ever seen in her life, clomping into her world, into her home, half-monsters themselves.

Even now, for a simple walk across town, for a simple supper, he and Calanthe both brought a few of their blades, knives on their hips and tucked into their boots. Edya stared at the weapons for a beat before simply turning around and heading down the stairs.

Calanthe closed the door firmly behind her, and Eist suddenly remembered how much darker the stairwell was at night—pitch black, to be exact. “We should leave a lantern or—”

“It’s fine,” she returned softly. Something in her tone instantly made him curious.

Curiosity was not sated until they returned, having not gleaned much from their questioning of Zagradd on whether or not any of the murdered families were missing someone—apparently some of the remains were so badly mangled and torn apart that putting all the bits back together had been too overwhelming a task.

Sometimes Eist forgot how gruesome his work was. He would have had no problem spending a day or two, putting bodies back together to solve the riddle. But then again, they weren’t people he’d known his whole life. And he wasn’t a man unaccustomed to such horrific sights.

But they thanked Zagradd for his help anyways, and made their way back to the apothecary. Once they reached the stairwell, Calanthe gently took his hands and placed them where they’d been the night before—right on her shoulder, left on her waist—and slowly began climbing the stairs.

Eist realized her pace was less about safety and more about simply taking her time because she could. Once they reached the landing, Eist didn’t let go. He felt her body still, heard the soft sound of her hands bracing against the closed door in the darkness.

“Show me again,” she whispered, the aching in her tone sending a rush of heat through his chest. “Will you—show me again.”

He shifted closer, adjusting to the sensation of feeling her body so close without being able to see it in the slightest. He heard the soft stirrings of movement—the slight strain in her shoulder muscle, beneath his right hand, made him guess that she was dipping her head forward.

He let his hand slowly trace up the curve of her neck, thumb ghosting over the smooth skin at her nape before letting his mouth follow. She huffed softly, as if she'd been holding her breath. He brought his hand back to her shoulder and her hand slipped over his in encouragement, fingertips stroking over his knuckles in a comforting cadence as the warmth radiating from her body grew.

He let his left hand slip further around her waist, pulling her body into his.

Calanthe’s knees nearly buckled at the feeling of Eist holding her, at the competing juxtapositions of the ferocity of his grip and the tenderness of his lips as he kept leaving little kisses across the back of her neck, as if he were simply savoring every small taste of her.

She had never truly feared him, but she had even less to fear now. He couldn’t control her; everything she did was entirely of her own volition. She had control. She was safe, safer than she'd ever realized.

Still an idiot, though. For years now, she'd worried about her hold over him, about just what he might pull her into doing against her will as well (not because Eist would ever willingly harm her, but he was still half-siren and they did still experience _some_ effects from each other’s natures). If she had just said something sooner, she would have already known this, would have spared herself so much doubt and worry.

Yet she couldn’t bring herself to regret it too much. It had contributed to her current situation, which was a highly enjoyable one.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against her ear, “Do you truly want me to show you—here, like this?”

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the heated heaviness of his tone. “Yes, here. Like this.”

He made a low noise of approval, almost a growl, and she shivered in response. His arms wrapped around her fully, giving a squeeze as he nuzzled into the curve of her neck, kissing and biting. Her knees buckled for a moment, but she quickly recovered—not quickly enough, because he chuckled softly at her reaction, fully aware of just how deeply he’d affected her.

She felt a ripple of warmth in her chest, amusement and adoration swirling through her veins.

 _Oh, I love you,_ she thought, for what must have been the hundredth time over the past few hours. But she couldn’t help herself. It made everything feel brand new, entirely different—the lack of worry, the full acceptance of emotion.

It had changed things for Eist, too. Her mind flashed back to a moment from this afternoon, as she’d lain on her back, Eist on his side, leaning over her, his fingertips stroking down her stomach, light and reverent and playful and warm. Her stomach clenched at the memory of his touch, a fresh flush of heat blossoming across her skin.

She wasn’t sure if Eist could love her—if he was capable of truly loving someone, or if she was capable of inspiring such feelings, even if he were able to love—but she knew that he…cherished her, at least. He could have any woman (or man) he wanted, and he willingly returned to her body and her bed, again and again. But it was for more than just sex. They had a connection, an intimacy beyond physical, due to their friendship.

Which meant there was more to lose than just an occasional fun roll in the sack. She wouldn’t ruin things by gushing her own feelings. But she could…make him feel just as cherished, she decided.

Eist felt her shift, felt the sudden push of her skin against his mouth which made him pull back—in the darkness, there was a sensation of movement and sound, then Calanthe’s hands on his chest. She’d obviously turned around, now facing him as she leaned against the door. He waited, feeling the heightened curiosity at not being able to predict her next move, simply because he couldn’t see her at all.

Her hands slowly moved upwards, over his chest, up the sides of his neck, her thumbs brushing against the stubble on his jaw.

“Change in plans,” she drawled. “It’s my turn to show you.”

Truth be told, this was exactly how he wanted her anyways, confident and in control, as always. He merely smiled. “Show me.”

He heard her warm hum, could imagine the exact open-mouthed smirk she must currently be giving in response, and his blood spiked at the thought.

Her hands turned soft, fingertips trilling up, over his cheekbones, his closed eyelids, his forehead, his nose, as if committing his features to memory. He could hear the slow, shaking pull of her breathing, could feel the absolute reverence in her touch (and on her right hand, the touch of only three fingertips, her right pinky tip forever lost the striga’s teeth, a quiet reminder of why he’d come here, why he’d wanted to protect her, in any way he could), the warmth from her palms radiating against his skin like the heat of a flame. Then she pulled him closer, rising up to meet him in a kiss.

It was fervent, but soft. Melting and warm in a way that made him melt, too. She was humming in approval, pulling him back against the door with her. Her hands slipped down, around his torso to bring him closer to her before tugging at the hem of his shirt and pushing underneath, fingertips flexing gratefully into his bare skin. She broke the kiss, peppering more along his jaw and nipping at the pulse point just below.

He wasn’t entirely sure that Calanthe was aware of the little sounds she was making, hums and growls of delight as she nipped and kissed, holding on to him so tightly that he could barely move. He found himself bracing his arms against the door, almost thrown off balance by the weight of her as she burrowed into the curve of his neck, humming once again as she bit and sucked just above his collarbone.

He wanted to laugh in breathless delight. Of course, he’d been aware of Calanthe’s attraction to him, but today, she’d thoroughly proven that her desire had even more depth than he’d ever imagined (her confession was still enough to send him reeling—the idea that she truly had wanted him so deeply that she’d convinced herself that she’d somehow been able to absolute control his mind, to command him to act upon the attraction she felt).

She made a new little noise and somehow, he knew she was grinning in unrepentant smugness. He had no idea what was coming next, but given that little hint, it was going to be wonderful. Her hands were slipping around, unfastening the hunting knife belted to his waist and letting it clunk to the floor. Then she went to his breeches, fingers fumbling slightly as she untied them, rising up on her toes to blindly wing a kiss against the side of his mouth, quick and playful and full of promise.

Her palms were definitely warmer as she braced against his hipbones, slowly lowering to her knees. He felt a ripple of anticipation through his veins. His cock stiffened further as she pushed his breeches down, fingertips coming back to lightly trill up his hips, mapping him out in the darkness.

Then, he heard the slight shift in her breathing, felt the warm gust of her exhale against his cock, the almost-touch of her lips (smiling, she was smiling, he could practically feel it against his skin). The weighted heat of her tongue had his entire body jolting in response, her grip tightening on his hips as she hummed in approval.

Calanthe closed her eyes, turning her head slightly to let her lips lightly follow the length of him with little kisses and heavy pushes of her breath, smiling at the way he tightened and twitched in response.

She’d always enjoyed his body—even before she’d actually seen all of it, she’d appreciated what she had seen, from the start. But now…she loved it, loved him.

The darkness added to the eroticism, but it also gave her courage—he couldn’t see just how softly she was smiling, couldn’t see just how much love was on display. Yes, he could feel the tenderness of her kisses, the soft stroking of her fingertips against his skin—but for all he knew, it was teasing, not reverence. Wickedness, not worshipfulness. Lust, not love.

She could truly let herself do exactly what she wanted. She dragged her lips back to the tip, slowly swirled her tongue and took him in deeper. He gave a low, tight huff at the sensation, and her heart swelled again.

 _Yes, you sweet thing, it feels lovely, doesn’t it?_ It was a rather good thing that her mouth was too busy, lest all these thoughts actually make it to her tongue. _Being adored, it feels so wonderful—this is how you made me feel, how you make me feel, even now_.

She thought of how he’d touched her this afternoon, how he’d looked at her, after unwrapping the linen around her chest. _See? Absolutely beautiful_.

Her blood was surging again with delight, just thinking about it. Oh, she wanted nothing more than to make him feel the same kind of breathless wonder.

Eist wanted to touch her, wanted to stroke her hair, to encourage the deliciously slow pull of her mouth, the warm soothing strokes of her hands over his skin. But he couldn’t do anything but brace himself against the door and simply accept her attentions.

It felt…almost uncomfortable, being solely a recipient, without being able to give _something_ in return. It wasn’t the first time she’d taken him in her mouth, but this was entirely different. He felt…laid bare, laid open in a way that he’d never been before.

It was different because her intentions were different, he realized through another whirlpool of tension and relief as she slowly pulled his hips back into her, taking in more of him. She wasn’t trying to seduce him, or even simply fuck him. She was…softer, gentler, slower and more focused on expressing something beyond desire itself.

She pulled back, and he heard her soft little sigh of contentment before her lips touched him again, slowly bringing him back into her mouth.

She adored him, he realized with a bolt of clarity. _It’s my turn_ , she’d said, and this was what she’d wanted to show him. Tenderness. Adoration. The same kind of selflessness he’d given her this afternoon, when all he’d wanted was for her to feel safe and vulnerable and able to fall apart in his arms.

He heard himself moaning, both under the weight of the realization and the sheer delicious feeling of her hand, so unbelievably warm, coming to help hold him, stroking the parts that her mouth currently couldn’t reach. More than anything, he wanted to give her just what she wanted—he wanted to open up and fall apart for her, exactly like this.

Calanthe could feel the tension coiling through his frame, looming over her. Her eyelids fluttered closed at the thought of what he must look like above her now, her cheeks flushing with even more heat. She slowly picked up the pace, building the rhythm as she listened to the sharpness of his breaths and the little sounds he made in response.

Oh, she wanted to cry, she thought. It was too much, just how much she loved him. He made another small, desperate noise and she hummed in approval, knowing full well the action only drove him closer to the edge. He was shifting under her grip, trying so hard to hold back from absolutely devolving, and she felt another rush of amused affection.

She felt the sudden tension-filled stillness in his frame and used both hands to pull his hips into her harder, fingers digging into his flesh as she held on tight.

If Eist felt helpless before, he was completely at Calanthe’s mercy now. She didn’t allow him to pull back, to stop from tumbling completely over the edge—and in the quiet chaos of the moment, he’d never felt safer in allowing himself to truly come undone. She was gripping him tightly, making muffled sounds of encouragement and delighted approval as he shuddered into her, his own fingers digging so deeply into the wooden door that he was certain he’d have splinters.

Calanthe didn’t move for a full beat, and he felt another jolt of electricity through his cock at the feeling of her slowly taking a deep breath with him still in her mouth. Then she delicately withdrew, giving one last gentle suck of her lips on his tip before shifting to nuzzle against his hipbone with a tiny kiss.

It was the kiss that nearly killed him. He let out another low, shaking sound, and thankfully, she was on her feet again, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a kiss, practically taking all of his body weight with her as she leaned back against the door again.

Calanthe could feel the languidness in his frame, and she felt a surge of satisfaction. _Good_. He felt good, and she’d been utterly responsible. Pridefulness being a trait in all dragons, it made perfect sense for her to feel a smug sense of accomplishment.

She loved him. He deserved only the best.

He was slowly regaining some sense of self—she could feel the sudden shift in his frame, the way he grinned against her mouth just before he pulled back. She could feel the teasing, long before she heard his wry tone.

“Is that all you have to show me?”

She grinned, shifting away slightly to actually open the door. “You know damn well it’s not.”

Eist readjusted his breeches, kneeling to blindly find his belt on the floor. With a grin, he followed her inside.

Her bed was closer—so naturally, that’s as far as they got. Eist wasn’t even sure he’d properly closed the door. He found himself unable to care, completely wrapped up in the woman in front of him.

The almost-full moon was pushing through the windows, giving just enough light to truly see—to see the way her eyes glittered so warmly as she pulled him close, giving a happy sigh at the feeling of their bodies together again, without anything between.

Despite no one being in the apothecary at this hour, they still stayed soft and quiet, smiling at each other like two children sharing a secret. And when they were fully tangled together again, she covered her own mouth with his, crying out into his lungs as she shuddered and jerked, holding him as tightly as possible.

Afterwards, they laid side by side, bodies still pressed closely to each other as they stared up at the ceiling.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t much need to, Eist thought. They’d said quite a lot, without words. He still wasn’t entirely sure how to interpret all of it—wasn’t sure he wanted to, for fear he might be wrong (and oh, the greater fear he might be right).

Calanthe turned on her side, to face him, pulled the pillow further under her head, and closed her eyes. He watched her face in the moonlight, the quiet contentment lining her features, the little line still at the corner of her mouth, now inflected with an almost-smile. He watched her shoulder rise and fall with her breathing, letting his gaze travel down the length of her body.

He couldn’t imagine a more perfect thing, he thought. Not in a million years. He thanked his former self, yet again, for deciding to come along on this hunt.

It was his fate, he knew. Or maybe his destiny. Or both. They were a bit hard to keep straight, and he was thoroughly exhausted, in a warm, satisfied way.

Either way, somehow, this was part of it. Having her, being had by her, like this. He couldn’t regret anything that came before, nor anything that could possibly come after, he decided. Affection rushed up his throat, which tightened under the weight of it.

He loved her. She…adored him. Maybe loved him, too. Even if she did, it didn’t give him any right to ask for more. No right to ask her to stay.

Except they were in her bed, he realized. He shouldn’t overstay his welcome. He sat up, ready to go back to his own bed, to give her the space she needed.

“What’s wrong?” Calanthe’s hand lightly braced against his stomach, her tone edged with sleepy concern.

His heart swirled with competing emotions. He suddenly felt…embarrassed, almost. He wasn’t sure exactly how to explain—because they didn’t actually share a bed afterwards unless it had been agreed upon before, and he wasn't sure this had been part of the change. Even this afternoon, after he’d fallen asleep, she hadn’t stayed. “I just…”

“Oh.” She suddenly sounded more awake. “Right.”

She sat up as well, reaching to the end of the bed, where she’d kept the coverlets neatly folded over. She offered a slightly-sheepish smile over her bare shoulder. “I…forget, sometimes.”

She pulled the covers up as she came back to lay next to him. Her eyes twinkled in the darkness as she looked up at him, expression still filling with slight confusion.

She fully expected him to stay. Here. In her bed, all night.

He slowly laid back down, feeling a little flutter in his chest at the realization. His head had barely touched the pillow and Calanthe was already wrapping her arms and legs around him, pulling their bodies back together ( _like magnets_ , he thought with a small smile, maybe some of her earlier theories hadn’t been entirely unfounded).

She placed a small kiss on his shoulder and laid her head on his chest. “If I get too unbearably hot, just roll me away from you.”

He hummed in amusement at the imagery—even more so at the idea that he would ever push her away (he’d rather let his blood boil in his veins). He stared up at the ceiling, feeling the silence slowly settle over them once more, adjusting to the feeling of breathing with Calanthe’s head atop his chest, the sensation of feeling her body breathing deeply and slowly beside him, the little twitches she gave that signaled how close to sleep she was, followed by the sudden heaviness of her body and the soft sound of her snoring.

She wanted him to stay. It was such a small thing, in the grand scheme. But it felt good, knowing that she wanted him here, right beside her, even if only for now.

She rolled over in her sleep, turning away from him. After a few beats, he felt the mattress shifting as she pushed her body back into him, her spine finally hitting his arm with reassuring warmth.

Like magnets, he thought again. He rolled on to his side as well, wrapping his right arm around her stomach and letting his legs follow the slight curl of hers. He nuzzled against the back of her neck—the warmth of her skin, heavy with the scent of her, filled him with a sudden peaceful sleepiness.

Her arm shifted, her right hand coming to rest over his, which was still lightly curled over her stomach.

Stay. She wanted him to stay. He gave a small sigh of contentment, happy to stay for as long as she’d let him.

He didn’t dream. He didn’t need to.


	12. Harbinger Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: this chapter has depictions of violence (I wouldn't consider it gory because I don't really do gratuitous description?) and very brief wound descriptions.

With the full moon rapidly approaching, they put all of their focus into preparing. Calanthe narrowed down the area most likely to hold the therianthrope, and they traveled up into the mountains again, visiting more attack sites and seeing what they could find.

The campsite where the hunters had been attacked proved the most useful. Fifty yards away, they found a deep gash in a tree, most likely from a woodsman’s ax. Still embedded in the bark, something even more interesting: fur.

“Werewolf for sure,” Eist decreed, taking a sniff. Calanthe watched him in mild surprise.

“You can’t tell from a smell.” Her eyes were wide with disbelief.

“Not entirely. But I happen to be particularly sensitive to supernatural signatures,” he informed her, with a mock sense of superiority. “Once I’ve felt a particular creature’s aura, I remember it always.”

It wasn’t entirely true. Still, it made her eyebrows lift, obviously impressed.

She was still looking straight at him when he felt the light press of her own charm, bumping warmly against his skin.

He grinned at that. Now, _there_ was an aura and a meaning that he was particularly sensitive to.

It was no surprise to either of them that ten minutes later, they were down on the ground, a bit unaware of anything other than themselves. The walk back to their horses was filled with shining smiles and little adjustments here and there, making sure they looked entirely presentable and unchanged before they headed back to the village.

Eist glanced over at her, as they slowly rode back down the mountain. She was still smiling, obviously pleased at how their afternoon excursion had ended.

Twenty-four hours now, since the shift. They’d certainly been more…engaged, physically, but truth be told, Eist imagined that this is about how they’d be always, if given the chance, even before the shift. This morning Calanthe had rolled over and groggily greeted him, offering a few heavy, sleepy kisses against his skin before rolling out of bed to dress and trek down to the washroom behind the apothecary. As if she’d done it a thousand times, as if it were as natural as breathing, this new change between them.

They’d had a quiet breakfast—Belo Gethe had brought up beer and bread and strawberries, surprisingly—and had spent the morning pouring over the map and lunar charts while occasionally going downstairs to ask Belo about a few details here and there. He answered as best he could, and what he couldn’t, his wife easily supplied. Eist decided it was a bit of a boon, staying above the apothecary.

It felt…nice. Wholesome and simple and different and still somehow natural and right. It may only be a temporary thing, but it was a nice change of pace, a little glimpse into the world of what-if.

Most importantly, they hadn’t truly changed at all. She still made snarky asides and rolled her eyes and huffed at some of his quips in return. He still loved her, and he could still express it in a quiet and small and manageable way, even if he expressed it a little more.

She hadn’t consumed him, hadn’t made him lose himself (yet). For all her charms and complexities, for all their connection and chemistry, Eist hadn’t been pulled under, pulled away from himself like his father. That had to be a good sign, he thought.

Maybe this had been the end Vanielle had predicted. The end of the misunderstanding between them—because in a way, Calanthe’s previous view of him had ended. She wasn’t afraid of controlling him, of forcing him into something he didn’t truly want. And he wasn’t afraid of showing her just how much he truly wanted this, wanted her.

“Just think,” Calanthe interrupted his thoughts with a casual air, keeping her chin up and her gaze focused on the trail before them. Her tone was lilting and nonchalant, though she was fully aware of the effect of her words. “In forty-eight hours, we could be riding our way out of Velhad, a job well-done and nothing left to do but…catch up.”

He hummed at that, feigning mild surprise. “Oh? Given our recent conversations, are you sure there will be anything left to catch up on?”

She smirked over at him, hooded eyes burning with certainty. “I’d say we still have a _lot_ to say to each other, Hound.”

“Well, you have always been a charming and engaging conversational partner—I could chat with you for hours on end.” He placed his hand over his heart in utter sincerity. Her smirk deepened and she turned her nose back to Velhad, obviously pleased.

He felt another surge of delight. Granted, they’d already planned on a few days of just enjoying each other, after this job was done—but that was before, when there was an assumption that they’d both be dealing with weeks’ worth of pent up tension between them. Now that tension had thoroughly (repeatedly) been put to bed, and yet, here she was, making it blindingly clear that she still expected them to continue their plan.

She was choosing to stay, in a way. For now.

At dinner, they did not have the chance to ask Zagradd any further questions, though they didn’t truly have any more left, anyways. Apparently, Edya was being courted by a young man, Stelen, who was at the table tonight as well. He regarded the hunters warily at first, but by the end of dinner, was freely chatting along—with Eist, at least, as Calanthe did not generally offer much to the conversation, though she did remain polite, or at least civil.

Eist suspected that her reticence was part of her attempts to help Eava warm up to her again, which were currently being met with limited success.

It was a bit adorable, how considerate Calanthe was of Zagradd’s daughters. Eist couldn’t remember ever seeing her interact with children before. It was an interesting new side to her, in a way.

Emira, the eight-year-old, was thoroughly over her fear of them. Tonight she sat by Calanthe, and Eist noticed more than once that the young girl was mimicking Calanthe’s stance or the way she held her silverware.

Which surprisingly, wasn’t a bad thing. Calanthe had always possessed rather exceptional table manners and posture, despite her gruffer persona in the world of monster hunters. Eist still recalled with fondness sharing a meal with her in a tavern, and watching her promptly jab one of their fellow hunters in the leg with a fork for riffing on her “dainty” table manners. The word _princess_ had been tossed out, and she’d immediately reacted.

_Dainty enough for ya?_ She’d drawled, not even bothering to actually glance over. With absolute theatricality, she’d made a show of scrubbing her fork clean again before resuming her meal.

Truth be told, that might have been the moment he fell in love, looking back at it now.

It had not endeared her to the other hunter. He hadn’t rejoined the group, on their next hunt. Eist greatly suspected the man had given an ultimatum to their leader—either him or Calanthe. Unsurprisingly, their leader had obviously chosen Calanthe, who’d been with the group longer and had far greater skill anyways.

But there was no jabbing or sneering at the table tonight, thank the gods.

Emira glanced over at Calanthe again out of the corner of her eye, straightening her shoulders again and lifting her chin in a slightly haughty air as she continued her meal.

Eist noted the slight dip of Calanthe’s head, the small curl at the corner of her mouth. So she’d noticed, then. It only made it that much more adorable, Eist decided.

At the end of the meal, he overheard Calanthe quietly telling Emira that she had quite lovely manners, impressive for a girl her age. Emira seemed a little wonderstruck, but accepted the compliment with a level of cool calm that impressed Eist. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been so nonchalant, when accepting praise from the woman. Granted, her way of showing him was…a bit different.

They lit candles and went over a few more details on the map before bed—and Eist liked the restraint, liked the idea that they really could still work together, that this new thing hadn’t affected them negatively in any way. But the night still ended in Calanthe’s bed, curled up and content, this time with his head resting on her chest as she lightly stroked her fingers through his hair.

He felt her fall asleep beneath him, closing his eyes and letting the steady rhythm of her breathing lull him to sleep as well, as comforting as the push and pull of the tide.

* * *

They stayed in bed as long as possible, actually taking another nap at mid-day to prepare for the long night’s hunt. Calanthe felt Eist shifting behind her, giving a low, groggy groan as he gathered her into his arms again and hauled her entire body into him. She closed her eyes for a beat more, relishing the warm, snuggly feeling of his body curling around her own.

“Hound.” She frowned, finding her throat a bit dry.

“Hmm.”

“We do have to get up, eventually.”

“Hm.”

“ _Hound_ —”

“Heard you the first time,” he grumbled, even as he nuzzled further into the back of her neck. His teeth came out and her hips immediately flooded with heat.

Certainly no time for all _that_. She pushed herself to pry his arms open and slip out of his grasp, tamping down a grin at the little noise of dismay he gave in response. She found their clothes, tossing the bits that were his onto the bed. She fixed him with her firmest stare, one eyebrow raising in silent reprimand.

He sat up slightly, hair adorably mussed and grin perfectly lopsided. “If you’re trying to look disapproving, you should probably put some clothes on first. It’s hard to feel properly chastised when you’re still be treated to such a rewarding view.”

She dipped her head, huffing softly. _Idiot. I love you._

* * *

Calanthe felt a light chill—which meant Eist must be freezing right now. The sun was long gone and the mountains filled with a cool mist, the humidity making the cold bite even more.

“Y’alright?” She breathed, looking up at him with worried eyes. Eist smiled down at her. Even with the trees, the moon was so bright that she still saw him clearly.

“I’m alright,” he assured her, his tone just as low and soft. She gave a curt nod, focusing her gaze ahead and they moved further through the undergrowth. She heard a light flutter through the trees and stopped, waiting for more. But her senses didn’t tingle, and the noise didn’t continue.

Still, she quietly asked, “Feel anything?”

Eist was, after all, more sensitive. The thought made her grin wryly. That might be true, in more ways than one.

“Nothing,” he returned in a whisper. Still, he drew his shortsword.

There was a chance that they wouldn’t actually find the monster at all tonight. Calanthe prayed that wouldn’t be the case. Another month in Velhad was not on her wish list, pleasant as their stay had been.

Another sound, heavier and most constant, something crashing its way through the forest. They both stopped. Eist raised his sword slowly as Calanthe drew her ax from its hilt across her back.

“Still nothing,” Eist murmured, confirming her own lack of supernatural sensation.

A buck charged through the trees, running in the opposite direction, its white tail flashing in the darkness as it leapt over a fallen log.

The natural world often feared the unnatural. It was a good sign—they were headed in the right direction. Calanthe tightened her grip on the ax and kept moving, feeling the familiar swell of adrenaline and anticipation in her veins.

She never glamorized what she did, never romanticized it or tried to make it more palatable to the masses, like some hunters. She didn’t need moral imperatives or justifications. She was a harbinger, a bringer of death from the moment she was born, and she had no qualms about living up to her nature.

She knew what people wanted to hear: that she was afraid, when she hunted, or that in some way, she hesitated, that she needed some grand cause to keep her courage, that her bravery came from some place of love and sacrifice. That she regretted bloodshed, or that she didn’t seek out violence unwarranted. That she was still somehow quite human, in her view of the world.

But she wasn’t quite human, was she? Never had been. She liked killing; she did it because she was good at it and felt good doing it.

Moments like this, when her tongue tasted metallic and her ears whined with an almost electric hum, when her pulse sang and her teeth ached for action, brought it all back into center focus, startling clarity. She was a hunter, by breeding and birth—her only choice had been what to hunt, and how.

She felt something swirling behind her eyes, the adrenaline in her veins making every sensation heighten as she felt the first ripple of intuition.

“Something,” Eist said quietly. But she already knew.

She felt him shifting behind her, took a half step back herself to lightly bump her back against his in confirmation. Something was coming, shifting rapidly through the trees, sleek and fast and deadly.

Definitely werewolf. The low, guttural rumbling was audible even over the shuffling of padded feet upon the thick layer of pine needles on the forest floor. The darkness rippled, almost as visible as a drop into still water. The sound split and circled around them.

More than one, she realized, her pulse humming even faster. Good.

She could feel them. The heat of their bodies, radiating through the darkness. Every step they took vibrating through the air, brushing against her skin, leading her to them like a beacon.

But she didn’t follow. She waited.

Still, she pushed out with her charm. Just enough to antagonize. She felt the creatures shift, stirring at the change. There was a darker, deeper growl, a snuff of impatience. They wanted to tear her apart.

_Feeling’s mutual, fuckers,_ she thought. She pushed out again.

“Cal…” Eist’s tone was filled with warning. Obviously, he’d realized what she was doing.

She was impatient. She wanted them to attack, to lunge, to start so that she could end it, end them.

Of course, Eist knew this. He warned again, “Calanthe—”

She listened. She just didn’t _obey_. She pushed out with her charm again, this time with a little more force. It was meant to be aggressive, and it was taken as such.

With a sharp snarl, something in the darkness lunged forward, straight for her left shoulder. She instinctively tightened her grip on her ax, rising up on the balls of her feet.

And just before she could launch into action, Eist pushed her out of the way.

The fucking idiot was off-balance, not actually ready for the attack. The werewolf, with its momentum and vastly superior reaction time, immediately redirected to Eist, crashing into them both with a sickening thud.

Calanthe hit the dirt and rolled, back on her feet in a flash and looking around wildly. Eist was yelling, pinned beneath the enormous monster.

She put all of her force into her ax, landing a solid blow to the back of its neck. With a sharp yip, its body went rigid. Bellowing with absolute rage, Calanthe put her entire body into yanking the ax sideways. There was a sharp crack as the neck severed completely from the rest of the spine, and the beast collapsed.

“Eist!” She left her ax in the monster’s neck, shoving it aside to find Eist underneath. He was wincing and hissing in pain, his face covered in blood—and his left forearm still firmly in the locked jaw of the werewolf. She saw the glint of a blade in the beast’s throat. Eist hadn’t been entirely helpless, thank the gods.

Still, he was in danger.

“Fuck.” She hit her knees, pulling out a dagger from her boot and slipping it into the werewolf’s mouth, using the flat side of the blade to leverage its jaw open again.

With a low cry of relief, Eist pulled his arm out of the grip. Calanthe’s hands were shaking as she took the blade and cut up the side of his sleeve, exposing the bite.

It was bad. Mangled and ugly. Her whole body began to tremble as she fumbled for the leather satchel at her hip, filled with small vials.

_Wolfsbane,_ she needed wolfsbane. She found it, taking a beat to look into his pained expression to rasp out, “This is gonna hurt.”

She didn’t waste time waiting for a response. She grabbed his wrist, uncorked the vial with her teeth and poured it directly into the wound. Eist screamed and instinctively tried to pull away, but she held on tight, until every drop was gone.

She felt something cold slither down her face. With a numb jolt, she realized she was crying.

“The other one,” Eist panted, trying to push past the searing, foaming pain in his arm, spreading through his veins like fire. “Where’s—”

“I-I-I, I don’t know.” Calanthe looked around wildly, eyes wide as she tried to see into the darkness. “It didn’t—I can’t—I don’t know if I can feel it, I can’t feel—”

He reached out, gripping her hand and grounding her a bit. “Just—keep an eye out.”

She nodded quickly, even as she pulled a silver-bladed karambit off of Eist’s chest. Her expression filled with regret again. “A little more pain, I’m afraid.”

She ripped more of his shirt sleeve, following the red lines streaking up his arm. At his bicep, she pressed the flat side of the blade against his skin. He hissed, but it didn’t sizzle the way she’d expected. Good. That was a good sign. The wolfsbane was working, killing the toxins before they could even begin to take root.

There was a smaller, single puncture near his wrist. She wasn’t sure that the wolfsbane had thoroughly doused it. She put the blade against his knuckles, and this time he winced more.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Her lungs contracted in pain as she made an x-shaped incision on the wound ( _I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, my love, I am so sorry, forgive me, I love you, forgive me, please_ ). She immediately pulled his hand up to her mouth, sucking blood from the cut and spitting it onto the dirt.

She’d wanted blood. Her tongue and teeth had cried out for it. Now she had it, and all she could do was tremble and weep.


	13. Cursed

Eist refused to leave until they’d actually completed the job, although Calanthe would have been more at-ease if they’d left immediately and returned to their rooms, where they had more wolfsbane. But she hacked off the werewolf’s head as proof, gingerly carrying it along with her as they went back to their horses. As a safety measure, they’d kept the horses in a barn at one of the abandoned homesteads, surrounding the entire building with bits of silver and a solid circle of dried wolfsbane.

It had worked, as usual—but something had definitely passed this way, given the horses’ skittish moods.

Calanthe refused to let Eist help with anything—she ordered him upstairs to apply more wolfsbane to his wounds while she settled the horses in for the night, bringing the bag with the werewolf’s head with her.

She clunked it down, just inside the door, looking around the main room. There were candles lit, though the full moon certainly illuminated things well enough to see clearly.

“Eist?” She called softly, her heart beginning to hum anew.

“Here,” his voice returned from the bedroom. She quickly walked through, to find him rinsing his arm in the basin, the water now tinged pink with blood. He’d scrubbed the blood from his face, which was twisted in pain as he determinedly continued cleaning his wound, every line in his now-bare chest screaming with tension.

She wanted to cry again. Instead, she stepped forward, her voice hoarse as she commanded, “Here—let me.”

She cleaned him up, applied more wolfsbane, eyes stinging at his hiss in response, and found some linen to pad and wrap his wound. It wasn’t bleeding profusely, but within a few minutes, she could see the red staining through.

“Lie down,” she instructed.

“I admire the enthusiasm, love, but I’m a bit exhausted,” he deadpanned.

She rolled her eyes. “Fucking _lie_ down, Eist. And keep your arm above your head.”

She went back to her own bed, returning with pillows to help prop up his arm, keeping it at a position to lessen the bleeding.

“You’re very pretty, when you’re being all concerned and attentive,” he informed her in mock seriousness. Her worry was immediately replaced by anger. He was _literally_ bleeding out, and he was _making light_ of it.

“Shut up,” she whispered fiercely, leaning down to kiss his forehead just as roughly. “You were an absolute idiot, and nearly got yourself killed—”

“Which one of us exactly was antagonizing the werewolves again?” He feigned confusion. “You know, the monsters specifically oriented on aggression?”

“No one asked you to go all white knight and push me out of the way,” she snapped back. Still, his words were truth, and they stung.

He softened at that. “No, no one did. No one had to.”

She wanted to cry again. Her throat tightened as she added, “Well, it was stupid and unnecessary. I had it handled.”

“I know,” he said simply. His blue eyes were filled with absolute sincerity. “But I just…I couldn’t stop myself. Not if there was the slightest chance that you might have been hurt.”

He was so beautiful, so precious and thankfully alive, so very much him self in the very best way. Calanthe felt another rush of anxiety and relief through every ounce of her being at the thought that she'd almost lost this, almost lost him.

“You…absolute idiot,” she breathed, choking on tears.

He smiled softly in response (he knew, she thought, he knew what she really meant, what she couldn’t bring herself to say, even now).

“I am,” he conceded. “It’s why I came in the first place.”

She wasn’t sure if he meant that he’d come because he was an idiot (or rather because he’d somehow always known what she felt, what she’d truly meant when she’d called him that), or because he’d felt the need to protect her, however he could.

Both, maybe, she realized. That only terrified her more.

Eist felt an overwhelming sense of peace about it all, despite the pain.

Calanthe had brought death and destruction, yes. Against the werewolf, but still technically fulfilling the prophecy.

_You will be driven from the village, called a monster_ —it had not yet come to pass, but if it did, well, it wouldn’t be the first time. He held no fear over that.

_You will be cursed_. Like the warnings of death and destruction, it could be interpreted in many ways.

Because he was already cursed, in a way. He loved her, beyond measure. He’d told himself that he could contain it, that he could keep it from overwhelming him, from drowning him like it had his father.

But here he was, absolutely drowning. She was hovering over him, mouth set in a hard line but eyes still so impossibly soft with worry and fear—and he realized that he could no longer keep this love soft or small or quiet. It would consume him completely.

Before tonight, he’d told himself that he could be content with small things, with stolen moments and things left unsaid, though perhaps gently understood.

But it had changed in an instant. The moment he’d felt the rapid approach of the beast, the instinctual knowing of exactly where it was headed, exactly what it wanted to do to her—it was if a floodgate had been unleashed. He’d lunged, knowing full well that he wasn’t actually ready to fend off an attack.

It hadn’t mattered. All that mattered was her. Her safety, her life, _her_. Despite the pain and the fear—and yes, even her anger—he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

And he now knew that he couldn’t do anything but throw himself in front of her, now and always, throw himself completely to the mercy of this woman and her love, to let himself drown in his own love for her.

And how could he not? Even now, when she was fuming and churning with worry she was still gingerly removing his boots, arranging the bed to make him more comfortable.

He broke his own rule. Quietly, he asked, “Will you…stay?”

She blinked, and he saw the softness flood her features again.

“Of course,” she rasped, suddenly looking impossibly small. She gingerly walked around the bed, and he followed her with his gaze, turning his head to watch her sit on the edge, removing her boots and various weapons and belts, along with her doublet, before turning and rolling onto her side, moving closer to him again.

She looked like she might start shaking again. He thought of the tears streaming down her face, when she’d tended his wounds in the forest. The shaking of her hands, the little skittering noises that he was rather certain she hadn’t even known she was making.

He was beginning to think that maybe, she’d been cursed, too.

_Only a curse if it’s not requited_ , he told himself. He reached for her with his right arm, and she immediately slipped into his embrace, curling up against his side and nestling her head against his shoulder. Which meant, maybe, they were each other’s curse, and each other’s cure.

“It’s alright,” he assured her again, feeling it in every ounce of his body, deep down to his bones. “It’s all going to be alright.”

She pressed further into him, turning her face into his bare shoulder and letting out a soft, heavy exhale.

After a beat, she spoke, her voice muffled by his skin. “Let me be perfectly, explicitly clear—if you ever pull a stunt like that again, Hound, I will murder you myself, with my bare hands.”

He chuckled at that, slowly devolving into full-chested laughter. He felt the tension slipping out of her body, still so close against his.

For the first time in weeks, he genuinely felt at-peace. They’d survived. All would be well.

* * *

Calanthe was a light sleeper to begin with, but she awoke with a start every time Eist shifted in his sleep, even just barely. He seemed to sleep through what little of the night remained, but it didn’t seem particularly restful. After dawn, she got up, quietly slipping around to the other side of the bed to check his bandages. The bleeding had stopped. He was a little pale, his face looking a bit waxy and his hair plastered across his damp forehead, but she supposed some of that was having her curled up next to him all night, with her higher body heat.

She walked over to the wash basin, looking up at the mirror hanging on the wall behind it.

She looked like hell, unsurprisingly. The kohl around her eyes was completely smudged all over her cheeks, thanks to her tears. Her eyes were bloodshot; her hair still a wild mess.

On her chin, blood. Eist’s. She’d washed her mouth out before she’d even hacked off the werewolf’s head, wolfsbane diluted with water. That hadn’t helped her mental state—too much could prove fatal, she knew, and that was in humans. She wasn’t sure how dragons reacted.

She seemed a bit feverish too. Another side effect of wolfsbane. With a sudden flash of insight, she realized that was probably the reason Eist seemed clammy as well. He’d certainly been exposed to more than she had.

She looked down at the basin, at the water still tinted with Eist’s blood.

It all came rushing back to her—just how terrifying last night had been, just how close she’d been to losing him. She gripped the edges of the basin and retched, abdominal muscles screaming in exertion as she choked on air and brought up nothing but bitter bile, wave upon wave until there was nothing left in her stomach at all.

She closed her eyes, willed herself to breathe, to quieten her sounds, to keep from waking him. Finally, the convulsions subsided and she took a long, shaky breath, wiping her nose on the back of her hand.

Then, with one last deep breath, she straightened up, gingerly removed the basin from its stand, and headed out to the washroom. She cleaned it out and filled with fresh water, carefully making her way back up the stairs again.

She washed her face, wetting her hands and simply smoothing them over her mess of braids (she didn’t need to look perfectly in-place, she just needed to not scare the local children). She rinsed out her mouth again and gave herself one last look in the mirror.

It would do. She wasn’t putting her doublet back on. She just needed to deliver the werewolf head to Zagradd, and inform him that there was still another one out there.

Another month in Velhad, then. She sighed at the thought.

She turned back to Eist, still sleeping. She wouldn’t wake him. He needed the rest, and they didn’t need people getting skittish over his bite. With a nod of self agreement, she strode towards the door, grabbed the bag with the head, and hurried down the stairs.

Belo Gethe was opening up the apothecary as she walked by. His eyebrows shot up.

“Have you got it, then?” The hopefulness in his face was almost heartbreaking. She liked Belo. He was a naturally joyful person—not something she was particularly familiar with, but she liked him, nonetheless.

“One of them, yes,” she answered, holding up the bag for further attention. “But I’m afraid there’s still another out there.”

Belo’s eyes went even wider. “What was it?”

“Werewolf,” she supplied flatly. She saw the flutter of fear across Belo’s face.

“And where is the Hound?” The man asked, almost fearful of the answer.

“Getting his beauty sleep,” she offered a droll smile. She saw the slight relieved shift in Belo’s shoulders. Yes, he was a good man.

“I shall bring you some more beer, this afternoon,” Belo decreed. “You’ve certainly earned it.”

She didn’t quite feel like it was true. Still. Motioning down the street, she said, “I believe Zagradd is—”

“Right, yes, of course, no doubt.” Belo graciously gestured for her to go about her day. “But—when you are done, I would love to hear the tale.”

“As long as it involves drinking some of your beer, absolutely,” she forced herself to grin, to make herself seem more assured than she felt.

He laughed at that, nodding in agreement. “Ja, ja. That is a promise, monster slayer.”

She headed down the street. With every step, she berated herself for her stupidity.

She’d been bull-headed. Eist had warned her, and she’d pushed on anyways—of course he’d feared for her safety, of course he’d wanted to protect her, because she couldn’t be trusted to use some fucking sense and _wait_.

Of course, it was all her fault that they were even in this mess. She’d been the one to accept the commission, which Eist had already refused. And he’d just confessed that he only came along because of her.

That goddamn sphinx, she thought suddenly. She was the one who spooked Eist in the first place—but then again, her words had rung true, in some way.

Calanthe didn’t know if she wanted to shriek or to sob. Did neither, in the end.

Zagradd Nyt answered her knock, blinking in surprise as she chunked the bag at his feet, right on his doorstep. “One werewolf down, another left to go.”

“There’s…more than one?” His expression fell. Poor man. He’d wanted an easy solution. Hadn’t they all.

“Afraid so.”

“So…what do we do? Wait until the next full moon?”

Calanthe shrugged. “There are…other options, technically. Brew up a big batch of wolfsbane and have all the locals drink.”

His face clouded with confusion. “What good will that do?”

“It would show you which one is the werewolf,” she blinked. Sometimes she forgot that certain things weren’t simply common knowledge. “And then you could either kill them or cure them, your choice.”

“But—it isn’t one of our people,” Zagradd said softly, as if shocked she’d dare suggest such a thing.

She slowly arched her brows. “Which seems more likely, Mr. Nyt: that a random stranger shows up every full moon…or that someone around here has been cursed or bitten and either doesn’t know or is trying to hide it?”

“No.” He shook his head curtly. “It couldn’t be. It has to be some…traveler, passing through.”

She couldn’t stop herself from outright scoffing (her self-restraint wasn’t great to begin with, and now she was exhausted and anxious). “Nearly half a year is a long time to just be passing through.”

“Where is the Hound?”

Ah, yes. He wanted to speak to the man, the reasonable one. Granted Eist _was_ the reasonable, calm one, but _still_.

“Sleeping,” she answered. Nodding towards the bag still at Zagradd’s feet, she pointed out, “It’s a pretty simple job, delivering a head. Seemed a bit unnecessary for us both to be here.”

He nodded softly in understanding. He still looked a little dumbstruck. It was still rather early in the morning, Calanthe realized.

“We can discuss the matter in further detail tonight,” she suggested. “With the Hound present, of course.”

Then she turned on her heel and strode back to the apothecary.

Belo Gethe was quite excited to hear the tale, and Calanthe only changed a few details (she didn’t mention Eist being bitten, for certain, though she did point out that Eist struck the beast first, in the throat, distracting it enough to let her land the killing blow). Belo slapped her back and cheered at the ending, as if he wasn’t already aware that the werewolf’s head was in a bag.

“But a whole month now, until you can hunt down the other one?” He cocked his head to the side.

Calanthe shrugged. “There are other ways of finding a werewolf, even when they’re in human form. We may have the problem solved before then.”

She doubted it, but the idea seemed to give him hope. With a promise from Belo to bring up beer soon, Calanthe hurried up the stairs, more than ready to get back to Eist.

He was still sleeping peacefully. She smiled softly, fingertips lightly brushing the curls back from his forehead. He didn’t seem feverish anymore, either—probably because her overly-warm body wasn’t curled up next to him.

He stirred at her touch. Didn’t quite open his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she returned softly. “You can sleep all day, if you like. You’ve earned it. Let me change that bandage, and you can go back to sleep.”

He hummed at that. She went back into the main room, rummaging around in her rucksack to find her linen towel. She ripped it into smaller pieces, plus a few strips to keep it secure.

“I suppose I owe you a new towel,” he pointed out wryly, when she came back to the bedside.

“Don’t worry, I’m keeping a tab,” she informed him, only half-joking (because she actually was, because _she_ owed _him_ , so much now).

Eist took a beat to study her face as she sat on the edge of the bed, delicately taking his arm in her hands and beginning to remove last night’s blood-soaked bandage. Her brows were knit in concerned concentration, his favorite line at the corner of her mouth on full display as she frowned.

“You still mad?” He asked quietly, feeling a slight tremor of worry in his chest, despite the teasing tone he used.

Calanthe hummed, never looking up from her work. Quietly, she confessed, “At myself, mostly.”

He frowned at that. Felt his heart clench at the way her expression twitched suddenly, as if fighting back a mixture of anger and tears.

“I made you a promise, Hound,” her voice was low, a bit gravelly, as if she were physically trying to hold back her emotions. “At the very beginning, I promised you—I said I would keep you safe.”

The last word was barely a whisper, barely a breath as her shoulders rolled inward and her eyes fluttered shut, the guilt and shame so screamingly evident that Eist’s throat tightened with tears.

He sat up, using his right arm to wrap around her shoulders and bring her into his chest. She practically collapsed into him—he felt her shaking, and he knew that if she wasn’t already crying, it was taking every ounce of her restraint to keep from it.

“I’m so sorry,” she pressed further into his chest, so small and penitent that he almost didn’t recognize the woman in his arms. “I am so, so sorry—”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he told her fiercely, holding her tighter and pressing a firm kiss against the side of her head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I pushed them, Eist. You told me to wait and I didn’t listen—I’m so sorry, I didn’t listen—”

“Shh.” He gently began to rock her, keeping his lips as close to her ear as he could. “It’s alright. We’re alright. We’re safe and it’s all alright—”

“You have a bite the size of my hand on your arm,” she pointed out. “You could have—”

“But I didn’t.” He pushed a little more authority into his voice, just enough to make her stop, to make her listen. “A lot of things could have happened, but they didn’t. And after everything that did happen, we’re still here. We’re still alright. We survived, Calanthe. That’s all that matters.”

She sat up, pulling out of his embrace. Her eyes were filled with tears, wary and so desperate to believe him.

“It is?” She asked softly.

“It is,” he echoed, just as gently.

She gave a watery smile. Sniffed, looked away, tried to tamp her feelings back into place.

“But...." He kept his voice low, slowly raising his eyebrows in mock sincerity. “If you are still feeling remorseful, I do have a long list of things you could do to…ease your sense of guilt—things that would make me feel much, much better—”

“Eist Tuirseach, you fucking lecher.” She smacked his chest with the back of her hand. He merely grinned, feeling a measure of relief for the way she smiled in response. She shook her head. “Leave it to you to try and work this situation into some kind of sexual favor scheme.”

“I am but a simple man, with extraordinary taste in women.”

She blushed at that, dipping her head to focus on his bandage again. Still, a grin curled at the corners of her mouth. “It’s not like you’re capable of much, with this bum arm—”

“Get undressed. We’ll put that theory to the test.”

She hummed at that, shaking her head again. She became slightly more serious as she gingerly peeled back the final layer of bandaging, leaning in to inspect it.

“How’s it look?” He kept his gaze on her face, as expressive and beautiful as ever.

“Surprisingly good,” she drawled. “The bleeding’s stopped, at any rate.”

She stood up, taking the bloodied bandages over to the wash basin and depositing them in the water. Then she came back, picking up the fresh linen from the end of the bed and sitting down beside him again.

“You’re still certainly not ready for any of the activities you suggested,” she added, with an arch of her brow.

“I didn’t _suggest_ anything,” he pointed out. “In fact, I used very vague terms—whatever you imagined, that’s entirely your _own_ dirty mind at work.”

She huffed at that, though she couldn’t quite deny it and they both knew it.

Still, she kept her tone innocent, nonchalant as she made quick work of the bandage. “Oh? Then I suppose your command for me to undress was merely a care for my own comfort?”

“It wasn’t a command.”

Her dark gaze flicked up to meet him, immediately searing him. “Are you sure about that?”

He felt his chest tighten at the thought. No, actually, he wasn’t sure at all.

* * *

Belo brought beer up, in the afternoon. Calanthe, once again astounding Eist with her charm and good manners, insisted that Belo stay to share a drink with them. It devolved into telling stories, and more than once Eist had to drag his gaze away from outright staring at Calanthe when she laughed. She was adorable, when she was truly amused and enjoying herself.

Eist kept his sleeve rolled down to his wrist, effectively hiding any sign of his injury. Calanthe kept casting careful glances his way, noting the color of his complexion and his general mood. He seemed perfectly well. Perfectly at ease. He'd been in pain earlier and she’d brewed him some willowbark tea, which seemed to help. He didn't have full range of motion, and his muscles were a bit stiff, but that was to be expected for a while. But he was safe, and currently out of pain.

Yes, everything was alright.

Edya arrived, with Stelen in tow. Apparently now that people knew that it was a werewolf, they became hyper vigilant. Calanthe wanted to roll her eyes at it—there had been a werewolf roaming their area for months now. For all they knew, they'd talked to it in human form every day of the week. Knowing didn’t actually change anything.

She still held her belief that it was a local, even if Zagradd didn’t want to hear such things.

Not that it was the topic of discussion at the dinner table, anyways. Not with the girls around—in fact, most of the evening’s conversation was centered around Edya and Stelen’s upcoming engagement.

Calanthe had tried to hide her feelings on the matter. Obviously, it wasn’t her place to speak on it, and life was always a little different in the smaller villages. Girls often got married at younger ages.

Still. _Fourteen_ , Calanthe thought softly. And Stelen was an easy six years older than her, maybe more. His father was some kind of merchant, who’d once lived here but had since moved to a town further south which was easily four times larger than Velhad, expanding his lucrative trade. Stelen and Edya known each other as children, though Calanthe couldn’t imagine that they’d been particularly close, given the gap in their ages.

Despite Edya’s blushing looks at dinner, Calanthe had gotten the distinct feeling of _arranged marriage_. Maybe she was wrong, but it held the hallmarks. Granted, she didn’t hold the fondest memories on the subject of marriage—which was probably why she recoiled slightly at the entire thing.

She ducked her head and focused on her plate. Her stomach went sour and it became a chore to eat. Thank the gods she’d already set the expectation that she would not be an engaged conversationalist at dinner—and thank the gods that Eist made up for her lack of words, with warm well-wishes to the young couple and then humorous stories of his travels, when the conversation’s path turned.

After dinner, the girls went upstairs to bed, while Hene bustled around, clearing the table and putting away the rest of the food. Zagradd and Stelen stayed at the table with Eist and Calanthe, and they quietly discussed what came next.

Eist calmly explained the various routes they could take to track down the werewolf before the next transformation—far more diplomatically and delicately than Calanthe had or ever could. She felt a swell of pride, simply watching him, simply listening to the way he offered solutions and allayed fears. Pride and…maybe something else, she thought with a smirk. She loved seeing him calm and in control, simply because it reminded her of just how easily she could wreck it, wreck him—and it only made her want to do just that.

Yes, she was a harbinger in all things, it seemed. But Eist never seemed to mind. If anything, he welcomed it.

Eist was pleasantly tipsy as they left the Nyt house and made their way down the deserted street. They’d brought Belo’s beer to dinner, as a contribution of sorts. After all, Zagradd and his family had been graciously feeding them for nearly a week, and they probably hadn’t expected to spend another month feeding two extra mouths. It seemed like the least they could do. When they turned down the narrow side-street to enter the side door of the apothecary, he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer to plant a kiss on her temple.

She blushed, thankful that the shadows hid it. “What was that for?”

“Just because,” he returned simply. For some reason, the answer made her grin like a fool.

He became particularly handsy by the time they reached the top of the stairs, and despite Calanthe’s (not even) half-hearted attempts to remind him of his injured arm, they still ended up in his bed, physically celebrating the fact that they were both still very much alive.

“You idiot,” Calanthe said fondly afterwards, sitting up slightly to glance over at his bandage—the only thing he was currently still wearing. “You’re bleeding through again.”

“I regret nothing,” he announced, with absolute sincerity.

She rolled her eyes, rolled out of bed to retrieve the linens she’d boiled and cleaned that afternoon.

He sat up, too, reaching out as if to stop her. “I can do it—”

“I know you can.” She returned simply, still walking away. “But I can do it better.”

He huffed in amusement at that. She merely grinned. Truthfully, she did still feel twinges of guilt—she was responsible for the injury itself, and partially responsible for the fact that it had begun to bleed again, too—and she needed to alleviate it, somehow. Even through an act as small as this.

“How’s it look?” He asked softly, once she’d unwrapped the bandage.

She cast a critical gaze over the wound. The bite had been deep, and more than just a puncture—there was ripping, too, to the point that Calanthe wasn’t sure he’d have full use of his arm muscles ever again. It was currently weeping, but the color seemed good, with no signs of infection. Still, there was some redness on the skin that looked a bit concerning.

“It looks like you overdid it a bit. You need to take some time to fully heal.” She wrapped it up quickly again. Once she was done, she simply took his wrist in her left hand and stroked her right over his knuckles ( _forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, I love you, forgive me_ ).

Eist watched the emotions flickering over her face, his heart feeling a slight pang at the worry and guilt so clearly reflected in it. He reached out with his right hand, lightly stroking up her forearm. Her lips quivered into a small smile. Then she leaned over, blew out the candle on the bedside table, and crawled over him to get to her side of the bed (and maybe she took her time, in a way that he did not mind). Then she flopped onto the mattress beside him, snuggling into his side like she’d always belonged there.

She was staying. He didn’t even have to ask.

For the first time, he allowed his heart to wish that she would stay, always.

* * *

Something was wrong. Calanthe knew this, even before she was fully awake. Her cheek felt oddly slick—Eist's chest, beneath her, was drenched in sweat.

She jolted upright, keeping her hand lightly on his stomach as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The bedroom windows were small, and covered in soot, barely filtering in the moonlight.

Still, Eist didn’t look well. Feverish, his skin waxy, his breathing catching at an odd pace.

Calanthe slid out of bed, lighting a candle and padding around the bed to check his wound. Eist made a small sound at the light in his face but didn’t fully wake.

Her fingers began to tremble as she set the candle on the bedside table and began to gingerly unwrap his bandage.

Eist stirred and made a groggy noise.

“Shh, shh, I'm just checking,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice calm. “Go back to sleep, love.”

_Love_. Fuck. She really needed to watch herself. Thank the gods he was definitely still out of it.

Her chagrin was quickly dashed. Even before she pulled off the final layer of linen, she could feel the heat radiating from the skin surrounding his wound.

She could practically map out the major veins going away from the bite—deep red lines, slowly creeping outward.

Infection. Her stomach clenched and panicked tears immediately pricked her eyes. Her lungs felt shaky, fluttering against her ribs like startled horses. 

“It’s alright,” she assured herself, assured the man still mostly asleep beside her. “It’s…it’s going to be alright.”

She rose to her feet, body shivering as she forced herself to slowly, calmly walk back into the main room, where her bag of elixirs and potions waited.

_It’s going to be alright._ Her hands shook as she sorted through all the vials and satchels.

Her hammering heart and twisting gut didn’t seem to agree.


	14. Back to Wherever You Are

**The** **North Shore, An Skellig.**

Eist closed his eyes, letting his body adjust to the slow rocking of the waves as he floated on his back. The water was like ice but he could feel the heat of the summer sun on his face, almost beginning to burn.

He should pay better attention. Should be more aware of his surroundings, shouldn’t just float aimlessly on the sea, especially when he was out here alone. He was already pretty far out, having to swim past the breaks to find a stretch of water calm enough for floating.

But he was nine now—nine and a half, which everyone knows is practically ten—and he could handle it, he knew.

Maybe he wanted to float too far out, he thought. Float away, stretching out to where the sun met the sea, just like Mother.

Except she didn’t just walk off into the ocean. He knew that now. She was a siren and she had returned to her people.

Sometimes, though, he liked to pretend. Pretend that she was actually still nearby, watching him and Sibba, and maybe sometimes she swam halfway across the sea, to whichever ship Bran was on at the time, just to check. Pretend that sometimes when he walked along the shore that he was not alone, that she was following along in the water, just past the breaks, always bobbing up and going back under before he could fully catch a glimpse. It was just silly pretend, he knew, but it was nice.

Still, he wondered. If he floated far enough, if he put himself in just enough danger, would Mother come to rescue him? If he kept his eyes closed and let the sea take him farther out, would he suddenly feel her arms around him, holding him tight, bringing him back to safety?

But what if she didn’t? What then? He’d never have the strength to swim back on his own, and Sibba would be left alone, left worried and wondering where he went.

He could never do that. He shifted, bringing his feet down to tread water as he looked around, finding his bearings.

He had to get back home, to Sibba.

As he swam back to shore, his heart still wondered: _if I floated away, would you finally come back to save me, could I finally float all the way back to wherever you are?_


	15. A Harbinger in All Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might hold some triggers for some people, re: physical assault and depictions of violence. If you're concerned, feel free to shoot me a message and I can either give you enough information to decide if you want to read it, or give you an overview so you can hop on to the next section without having to read. (and yeah, I'm probably overreacting but I'd rather over-label/over-warn than under so...just your resident Mom Friend, momming you to death, nothing to see here...)

**Thirty-Four Years Later.**

**Velhad, Kovir.**

“Eist…Eist, please, wake up, love—just wake up, just a little, you don’t have to open your eyes—”

Warmth. He felt so much warmth against his skin. Smelled leather and fear and _her_ , a scent that grounded him back into the moment, back into the bed with Calanthe, who was still quietly pleading with him.

“There we go." Her voice was still soft, still gentle and lulling in a way he’d never heard before. “Just drink this, love. That’s all I need you to do, just—good, good—no, don’t try to get up, just rest—”

Her hand was on his shoulder, weighted and hot to the touch. He still felt the warmth of her hip against his, the heat of her body radiating up his side and over his chest—she was leaning over him, getting him to drink small sips of water.

He wanted to ask questions ( _what time was it, what day was it, why did he feel like someone had taken a hammer to his head, why did his body feel heavy and numb, why was his tongue so swollen, why—_ ), but couldn’t do anything beyond make a small noise in the back of his throat.

She seemed to understand. He felt her shift her weight on the mattress, felt her other hand come up to lightly stroke across his forehead, down the side of his face as she quietly explained, “You’ve got a fever. But it’s nothing to worry about. I’m here, I’ve got you. Just rest. It’ll all be alright in the morning.”

She left him. He felt small and bereft at the sudden chill, the loss of her body heat immediately alerting him to just how clammy his skin was, how cold the night air was. He was like a child again, wanting to cry simply because he felt unwell and had no one to hold him.

His ears registered small noises: the sound of an earthenware cup being set on a wooden surface, the light sigh Calanthe took as if marshaling her strength, the padding of bare feet across the floor, the creak of the mattress and the shuffling of the sheets as she came back to him.

She came back. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled their bodies together again, her hand lightly stroking down his side in a steady, comforting motion. Her leg slipped over his, anchoring and warming.

“It’ll be alright,” she murmured again, holding him tighter for a beat more. “In the morning, everything will be alright.”

He believed, and felt himself being pulled back under, into hazy dreams and half-remembered memories.

* * *

It was not alright, unfortunately. Calanthe spent the night waking and checking Eist’s fever, plying him with more willowbark tea and water. Eventually, he developed chills and began to shake so violently that she feared he’d rattle right out of bed. She held him, closing her eyes and using what little control she had over her own powers to radiate heat into his body, inwardly repeating over and over again that everything would be alright soon.

Near dawn, she helped him dress and took him downstairs to the washroom behind the apothecary. He was half-dazed and his breathing was heavy—on the way back up the stairs, he leaned on her so much that she nearly stumbled, several times. She got him back into bed and refilled the wash basin with water, taking time to boil some more rags for his wound dressing in the main room’s hearth while applying cold compresses to his forehead and soothing him throughout.

He was so small and sparkless, she thought with a flash of fear. So impossibly small, so impossibly not himself.

She gingerly came to sit beside him, watching his face for any signs of acknowledgement as she quietly took his wrist and moved his injured arm into a better position to change his bandages. He didn’t seem to register it, although he certainly wasn’t resting—his expression was furrowed with exhaustion and pain, his skin still sheening with sweat.

_Please don’t leave me_ , her heart cried. _Please keep fighting._

Her stomach was already tightening with worry as she slowly began to unwrap the bandage. It fell to the floor completely when she removed the final layer and saw the wound.

His arm was beginning to swell. It was subtle, but she’d been keeping a close eye on it for hours now, and she was pretty sure that it was swelling. The skin was radiating heat and the red streaks were getting darker and pushing farther out.

She wanted to cry, but that wouldn’t do a damn thing to help the situation, so she took a long, shaking breath, forcing herself to think about the next logical step.

_It’s a wound, just a wound, just like any other wound—it doesn’t matter that it’s on him, or that you are far more invested in his recovery than anyone else you’ve helped. Think, Calanthe, think. Keep your head and save his._

_Infection_. It needed to be drawn out. _Poultice_. She could make one easily enough. There was water still simmering by the fire, plenty of clean bandages. She always traveled with a collection of clays and herbs, just in case (and they had saved her life, more than once—she just needed them to work, one last time, she thought, _one last time_ and she’d be content for the rest of her days).

She gently placed his arm along the pillow, rather certain he wouldn’t move it while she got things ready (he wasn’t moving at all, except for the shallow pull of his breathing, his body too exhausted to even shiver anymore). She moved quickly, setting out all her vials and satchels along the table, along with her small wooden mortar and pestle.

Draw out the infection first, then reduce the swelling. She carefully picked out the necessary ingredients, moving them next to her jar of clay.

Her eyes flicked up to the vial and satchel, for liquid and dried wolfsbane, respectively—and both practically empty.

She needed more. It wouldn’t hurt to add some to the poultice, either. Once the lycanthropy fully took over, rehabilitation was nearly impossible.

Not that Eist was infected like that, of course. He just had a simple infection, that was all. She'd treated his wound against lycanthropy but she hadn’t been focused enough on other sorts of bacteria.

She could fix this. He just needed a simple poultice for a simple infection.

Still, she needed more wolfsbane. Not because she was worried. But just because.

She shook her head and got to work, adding water to the mortar with the ingredients and grinding them into paste. She applied it between two strips of linen and returned to the bedroom.

Eist was asleep, his brow still furrowed in an expression that would have been adorable if his skin didn’t look so pallid and clammy. She checked the wound again, committing the sight to memory to compare to the next time she checked. She applied the poultice strip, wrapping it in warm, wet linens.

She held her hand over it, just a beat longer

_Heal_ , she pushed the thought into his skin. In a way, she genuinely wished she did have her father’s ability to bend minds and bodies to her will. But in this way, she was purely human.

Not purely helpless, though. She'd learned a lot of druid tricks and sorceress secrets, and she knew how to mend a body better than most because of it. She'd use every bit of that knowledge to bring Eist back to health, back to himself.

She hurried downstairs, where Belo Gethe had just opened the apothecary for the morning.

“Lioness!” He called out in joyful greeting, as if they hadn’t seen each other in ages, rather than hours.

“Belo,” she returned with a courteous tilt of her head. Her eyes instinctively scanned the rows upon rows of boxes and bottles around the store. She pulled her leather coin purse from her belt, setting it on the counter—she always made a point to show when she was paying from something, and when she was not. “I need to restock my wolfsbane. How much do you have on hand?”

His face fell slightly. “Ah. Well, before yesterday, I probably had more than enough for you—but it seems now that everyone knows it is a werewolf, they’ve gotten a bit…carried away.”

She gave a single nod, her lips pressed into a thin line. That might have been her fault. She'd suggested wolfsbane to Zagradd yesterday; apparently he'd run with the idea and told the others.

“But—” He gestured in the direction of the mountains. “My wife and I gather it in a meadow, just over the eastern ridge. I can get you a map, show you where to find it.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.” A little more time-consuming than she’d planned—even now, in this short span, she hated not being at Eist’s side, should he need her—but needs must.

Belo disappeared into the back. A beat later, the front door opened. Instinctively, Calanthe turned to see who’d walked in.

Stelen, Edya’s intended. Her brain immediately clicked—surely Hene or Edya could come to watch over Eist while she was away.

The young man was eyeing her with a curious expression. Not exactly welcoming, but outright glaring, either—for Calanthe, that was a win. She offered a slight smile and asked, “Is Edya around?”

“What business is it of yours?”

The venom in his tone made her blink—deep enough to bite, but still concealed enough to not be called out directly. Clever little snake this one was.

“I have need of her help,” Calanthe returned, keeping her own tone neutral. She wasn’t sure what she could have possibly done to offend this young man, seeing as they’d never actually spoken, despite having shared dinner at Zagradd’s table twice. Stelen had always directed his questions at Eist, which Calanthe had not minded, seeing as she didn’t much care for casual conversation.

“With what?” Less bite, a shade more curiosity.

And gods dammit, Calanthe couldn’t stop her mouth before she truly considered her words. “What business is it of yours?”

His face went red at that. She tried not to smirk—truly she did.

She failed. He noticed.

“She is my betrothed, everything she does is my business,” he returned, with all the gravitas of a stamping toddler.

She merely arched her brows, slowly pulling her gaze away with a thoroughly amused air. That did not improve his petulant demeanor.

She shouldn’t be taunting the man. But gods above, she was running on sheer adrenaline at this point—two nights of little-to-no sleep, with enough chaos and trauma to wreck her nerves for a lifetime, the only man she’d ever loved possibly dying in the room above. It felt _good_ , to get some of it out.

A harbinger, in all things.

Besides, he might be Edya’s future husband, but she very much doubted that Hene or Zagradd would allow him to make any decisions on her behalf—nor would they begrudge Edya’s assistance in whatever the monster hunters may need.

She simply turned away. No need to continue antagonizing him, as good as it felt—hadn’t she learned that from the werewolves?

A heavy beat followed. Then, Stelen spoke again, “How did you kill the wolf?”

One of those types, then. Always digging for gorier details, living vicariously through others. Maybe that’s why he was a bit salty. He fancied himself some big bad tough guy, but he paled next to Calanthe and Eist’s exploits, and it made him feel threatened.

She didn’t feel like indulging him, but she really shouldn’t have gotten sideways with him in the first place. Eist wouldn’t like it. So she merely shrugged and answered, “Easy. A hit to the back of the neck with the ax, then a quick—”

“No. How did _you_ kill it?”

Ah. One of _those_ types, then. She could practically feel the disdain oozing in every word. And as she turned back to face him fully, she could see the contempt pinching his features.

Calanthe didn’t bother with a smile. “With skill and efficiency, brought on by years of training and experience. Like any good hunter.”

“Bullshit,” Stelen retorted, with so much vehemence that it made her blink in surprise. “I spoke with Belo yesterday. He said the Hound stabbed the beast first—no doubt landing the killing blow. So why would you try to take the glory for yourself?”

“The Hound did stab first,” she conceded. “It wasn’t enough. Werewolves are rather large, as you know.”

He didn’t, she was sure of it. And he obviously detected her sarcasm on that point as well.

“I don’t believe you,” he staunchly declared. He really was angry about this, though she couldn’t fathom why (well, she could, in a way—a woman, doing something he could never have the guts to do, and doing it well…yes, that could make a fragile sort of man crack, she knew—she’d seen this happen several times, over the years).

She understood the root of his petulance—didn’t mean she had to indulge it. She shrugged nonchalantly. “You can fuck your disbelief up the arse for all I care.”

He moved closer, his shoulders going taut with unmistakable threat of violence. He was probably twenty years younger than her and weighed fifty pounds of pure muscle more—if Calanthe were an ordinary woman, she might have thought to step back, to be frightened.

But never in her life had Calanthe Fiona Riannon ever been an ordinary woman. She stepped forward, jutting her chin out in a defiant gesture, just _daring_ him to push it further.

Still, she smirked. He did not appreciate it, she could tell. Which, of course, only made her do it all the more. He was practically shaking with rage, and she suddenly wanted to laugh. At the absurdity of it all, of this man and this ridiculous little moment.

“Taking a hunter's cock doesn’t make you a hunter as well.” He spat.

And that was all it took. Calanthe didn’t have much self-control when her temper was tested on a good day—and today was far from a good day.

Her right hand zipped into action, grabbing the knife at her hip—her left hand, quite firmly, grabbed the little bastard’s balls and jerked him forward, just enough to let him feel the press of her blade against his own cock.

“Let’s be very clear.” She kept her voice venomous and low. “When I _take_ a cock, I do _not_ return it.”

He was trembling, with rage and probably a bit of pain.

“Do keep that in mind,” she warned, adding just enough heat to her palm to make him squirm. She kept her eyes locked onto his for a full unblinking beat, watching him mentally retreat (he certainly couldn’t do so physically, at the moment).

She heard Belo returning and she released him, without so much as a backwards glance. She turned and gave the shop owner a grateful smile as he appeared, holding up a map for her. She wasn’t worried about Stelen—she’d killed dragons, for fuck’s sake, and he was merely a gnat. She thanked Belo for his help and went to leave.

Stelen was still there, silently glaring at her. She went to move around him, and he merely stepped into her path.

She shifted back slightly—not in retreat, but to better balance on the balls of her feet, more than ready to prove just how serious she’d been in her previous threat.

“Stelen.” Belo’s voice broke the moment, almost startling both of them. “Stelen, aren’t you heading back to Lan Exeter today?”

There was something tight in Belo’s tone. He was obviously aware of the tension and was trying to dispel it.

Stelen blinked, turning his attention to Belo. His expression became calm, near-angelic. “Yes, sir, I am. Father wanted me to bring back some of your tea leaves. He swears that no one else can blend them quite like you can.”

Belo chuckled good-naturedly. Calanthe didn’t hear his reply because she’d skirted around Stelen and was making her way to the door.

She looked back one last time. Belo glanced over his shoulder at her, his bushy red eyebrows lifting slightly. She merely nodded in thanks, and hurried off to Zagradd’s house to fetch Edya.

She lied, naturally. Said Eist had food poisoning—likely from that cheese someone had dropped off. When she described the villager, Hene and Zagradd exchanged good-natured smiles and claimed they were not surprised at the quality of the cheese (and oh, how she wanted Eist to get better, just so she could say _see, told you so,_ just so his eyes would twinkle over her being insufferable and petty, so he could smile and affectionately call her a xenophobe again).

Edya came back with her, and Calanthe made a point to not even glance in the apothecary as they made their way around to the side.

“You don’t have to do anything, really,” she explained to Edya as they climbed the stairs. “You can just sit in the main room, just…to be on hand, if something happens.”

“Something like what?” Edya asked, still sounding a bit fearful. Then again, she’d always been afraid of them. So the thought of being alone with Eist must have been even more terrifying—though Calanthe wanted to laugh at the idea that anyone could meet the man for more than five minutes and not immediately know that he was safe and trustworthy.

“I’m not sure,” Calanthe answered honestly. “If…he needs a drink or water or something, I suppose.”

Once they got inside, Calanthe went into the bedroom alone and closed the small double doors behind her. She roused Eist enough to get him in a shirt, pulling the sleeve down so that his bandage was covered. He was still out of it, and his lack of response worried her further.

“I have to go out for a little while,” she informed him gently. Her hand instinctively went to his forehead again, fingertips lightly pushing back his usually-unruly nest of curls, which were currently heavy and damp, plastered to his skin. “I’ll be back soon, though. You just stay here and rest, love.”

She’d long given up trying to stop calling him that. It didn’t matter, he wouldn’t remember through the haze of fever—and even if he did, what then, what did she truly have to hide, anymore? She’d make a fool of herself a thousand times over, if it meant he’d survive and live to tease her about it.

“Edya is here, if you need anything,” she added. She let her hand trace the outline of his face, coming to fully cup his cheek. He didn’t respond, didn’t even slightly turn in to her touch. Hot tears swelled, blurring her vision.

“Just…wait, alright? Wait for me to get back.” She wasn’t sure what else to ask, how else to say it. “Just rest up and wait for me, alright?”

He didn’t respond. She didn’t expect him too. She took a deep breath, delicately rimmed a finger around her eyes to push away the tears, and rose to her feet.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she informed Edya, striding to the door. She took a moment to gear up. She checked her boot, knowing full well her knife was there, patted her hip to reassure herself that her hunting knife was in place (as if she hadn’t just used it, less than half an hour ago), and then grabbed her ax, strapping it to her back.

Edya was watching her with wide eyes. “Where are you going?”

“To pick flowers in the meadow.” Oddly enough, she wasn’t being facetious in the least.

* * *

She tied her horse’s reins to the roots of a fallen log, just a few yards away from where the forest ended and the meadow began (today was tough enough without the idiot wandering the meadow, munching down wolfsbane and violently dying of neurotoxin poisoning within a few hours). Then she took a large leather saddlebag and made her way to the meadow, already feeling a measure of relief to see the purple blooms dotting the waves of green grass.

It was peaceful. A few birds chirped, small creatures rustled through the grass. The summer sun was pleasant, and the cool air of the mountains kept it from being too unbearable.

Not a bad place to live, she thought. One could remain relatively out of contact with the rest of the world, except when absolutely necessary. If she didn’t already have her retirement planned out, she might consider settling in the mountains. With a wry smile, she shook her head—no, it seemed that part of her fate had already been decided, though she didn’t much mind.

She found herself considering it, though. Just…daydreaming, perhaps. Of a world where she didn’t have such attachments and responsibilities. A world where, perhaps, Eist chose to hang up his hunter's cloak, too. A world where this little thing they'd created in Velhad could truly take root and flourish.

The thought of seeds and taking root reminded her—she should see if Belo had more willowbark, when she returned. She could sense her courses were coming soon and she’d need the extra pain relief. For all her activities with Eist, she never worried about potential pregnancy—no, she'd traded that away, fair and square to Tissaia when they'd met.

Not for the first time, she wondered why Tissaia's curse couldn’t also take away the whole ordeal—she would have gladly welcomed the lack of mess and pain, just as happily as she'd rejoiced at her “cursed” barrenness.

_I suppose the point of a curse is that you have to endure some aspect of unpleasantness,_ Tissaia had drawled, when Calanthe had brought it up, years ago. And Calanthe had to concede the point.

So she endured. Her mind tried to recall the days—given the general warning signs, she guessed she had a little less than a week before she bled.

Probably part of the reason she snapped so easily at Stelen, truth be told. Not that her hormones had made him into the petulant sniveling child that he was.

Still. She sensed a talk with Zagradd was in her near future. She doubted Stelen would let it go without saying something—and she equally doubted that he'd be truthful when recounting their conversation or his own actions.

She sighed and shook her head. Why men had to be such brats about such things, she'd never know.

Pity they couldn’t all be like Eist. Then, with a droll smile, she decided perhaps it was best that there was only one of him—if there were more, she would simply spend her life on her back, without complaint.

_Wicked thing_ , her inner voice chided, sounding awfully like her childhood nursemaid. _No better than your mother, as ever, licentious creature._

She merely shrugged. The voice no longer really held any power over her, not for years now. Not since she'd locked its owner in her own little hut and set it on fire.

Still, it hung around. She supposed she'd earned that ghost, so she let it haunt her. They could say what they wanted about her character, but Calanthe did have a sense of fairness, in the end.

She let her mind go thoughtless for a bit, falling into a distracted rhythm as she simply cut plants at the bottom of the stem and tucked them into her saddlebag.

That was her first mistake. Letting her guard down.

Her second mistake was that when she walked back towards her horse, she noticed it missing and didn’t immediately stop. She kept walking, lengthening her stride as she frowned.

Her third mistake was remaining absolutely focused on the spot where her horse should have been, tired brain trying to muddle out an explanation.

And three mistakes was all it took.

Before she could even realize it, the ground was rushing up to meet her, the side of her head suddenly screaming in pain as her right eye went dark. Her hands hit the ground, barely keeping her from landing teeth-first in the dirt. A second hit landed in her side, just below her ribs, ejecting all the air from her lungs and a sharp sound from her throat.

More searing pain—at the back of her head, as a hand pulled her to her feet by her hair. She dropped the saddlebag and scrambled to follow along, reaching back to claw and pull at the hand currently ripping her back to her feet.

She was so focused on what was behind her that she didn’t pay attention to what was in front. Pain cut into the left side of her face as she rammed into a tree, her attacker’s hand grinding her cheekbone deeper into the bark.

“You _stupid_ cunt,” a voice hissed. She recognized it immediately—Stelen. She felt a jolt of surprise. The little snake truly had fangs, then. He braced his free arm against the back of her shoulders, keeping her firmly against the tree, unable to push off or fight back. He leaned in, and she could feel the way his body still shook with rage, just as it had during their altercation at Belo's shop.

“You think I don’t know exactly what you are?” He growled.

_No_ , she thought. _No, he couldn’t be_ —after all this time, she'd been so careful…hadn’t she?

“I saw you,” he spat. “That day in the woods—you and the Hound, when you visited the attack site. I saw how you followed him around with your simpering little looks and just how eagerly you let him take you—”

Oh. He wasn’t. Relief filled her veins. Then, she felt a flush of embarrassment—that lovely moment with Eist hadn’t been as private as they'd both assumed. Chagrin quickly became anger, her blood boiling at the thought of this creep watching them, of possibly twisting it into something far less wonderful, far less loving and far less equal than it was.

“No matter how much you pretend, no matter what lies you tell Belo and all the other gullible fools in Velhad, you are nothing more than a hunter’s _whore_ ,” Stelen hissed the last word so vehemently that she actually felt his spittle land on her right cheek. “Perhaps someone should remind you of your place.”

“When you find someone capable of doing that, let me know,” she shot back. Not her best retort, but she was a bit distracted.

He slammed the full weight of his body against her, and she held back a yelp as her ribs jolted into the tree while the unforgiving handle of her ax rammed into her spine. The blade bit into her shoulder—just a touch more pressure and it would truly start to slice into the skin, she knew.

Finally, her tired brain caught up. Delight surged into her veins, swirling with the adrenaline and pain and anger to make a heady cocktail.

“You know what?” She pushed out, barely filling her lungs enough to speak, still crushed between Stelen and the tree. She fought the urge to outright giggle. “You’re absolutely right. Someone should remind me of my place.”

She simply let her knees go out, gritting her teeth as she slid down the tree, the skin on the left side of her face shrieking at the burning, tearing sensation of slipping down the bark. Stelen hadn’t expect the shift and his grip loosened, just enough.

She hit her knee, pulling the knife from her boot and twisting sideways—as soon as his leg was in her line of sight, she struck, pulling a clean, hard cut just above the back of his knee, severing his hamstring.

He screamed and fell to the ground—and thankfully released his grip on her hair in the process. She braced herself on the tree and pushed back hard, enough to put a little more distance between them, giving her room to turn and scramble back to her feet.

He was bleeding hard and fast. Not that it mattered.

She lunged forward, grabbing his hair and jerking his head back, forcing his face to look up into hers.

“This,” she informed him, panting and trying to keep her tone completely collected as giddy delight spun through her head. She used every ounce of self-control to let her smile spread slowly as she lifted the blade, pressing it against his neck, watching his eyes register what had happened, what was happening. “ _This_ is my place.”

She wished that she could say that her hand slipped. Or that she hesitated, at least.

Both of those would be a lie. With a slow, steady motion, she slit his throat, tightening her grip on his hair so that he stayed upright, looking at her the whole time.

There. She thought smugly. Another rabid monster, put down for good.

She arched her brow and offered her sweetest smile. “Looks like you learned your place today, too.”

She watched the flickering of his eyes, the flashes of pain, confusion, anger, and then sheer blank nothingness. She simply held his gaze, funneling all her disgust, anger, and hatred into the look, taking great satisfaction in knowing that his final sight would be nothing but pure contempt—he deserved no less.

She felt the sudden heaviness, and not even her firm grip could keep him upright. She let go, let him topple face-first into the dirt.

She spat on him, for good measure.

_Edya, my girl, how I have saved you from a life of torment,_ she thought.

She merely enjoyed being able to breathe again, staring down at him in a sense of dazed distraction, as if already completely disconnected from him and the moment they'd just shared.

She considered hiding the body. But she didn’t have tools for burying and more importantly, hiding it implied a sense of guilt or shame, when she felt neither.

The meadow was secluded; she'd picked enough wolfsbane for Belo to restock his shelves as well—no one else would dare to venture out of the village for a while, she thought. There were plenty of wild animals to help do the dirty work.

With a sigh of self-agreement, she looked around, wondering where her horse was. She wiped her blade on her pants, gathered her things, and went to the log where her horse had been tethered.

She frowned slightly, trying to follow the hoofprints in the dirt. One set coming, one set going—so the horse had headed back down to the village, unsurprisingly. For all the ways he was a two-ton idiot, he had an excellent sense of direction and could figure out the route back to the stable with relative ease, no matter where they were or what stable he was currently being held in.

_Good boy_ , she thought to herself, even as she wished he'd hung around. The hike back to Velhad wouldn’t be too trying—evidently Stelen had walked it himself—but it would take longer on foot, and she didn’t relish being away from Eist any longer than absolutely necessary.

Eist. Her heart felt a pang. He wouldn’t be happy about this. It was actually probably rather fortunate for Stelen that Calanthe had already killed him, she realized. 

She might tell Eist later, after they’d left Velhad for good. But right now, knowing wouldn’t do anything but bring him pain. Last time he'd thought she was in danger, he’d walked away with a gruesome bite on his arm, which was currently still a source of worry and fear. It was best to shield him, for now.

She didn’t actually think about how she looked until she entered the door to their rooms and saw Edya's terrified expression.

“What—I mean….” Edya seemed to suddenly remember to whom she was speaking and stopped, though her eyes and mouth remained wide open.

She seemed particularly focused on Calanthe’s pants. Calanthe looked down, noting that aside from the marks where she'd wiped her blade clean, there was a light spattering of blood across her thighs from when she'd slit Stelen's throat.

“Women's troubles,” she offered. Technically not a lie. 

Edya looked wary and doubtful, and Calanthe didn’t blame her. She merely tilted her head in the direction of the bedroom. “He’s alright?”

Edya nodded quickly. “He…he started to cough, so I gave him some water.”

“Has the cough continued?” She felt a prickle of worry.

The young girl shook her head. “No, but he did speak, once. He…kept asking for…someone, I think. I couldn’t quite understand it. Callan, or something.”

“Huh,” Calanthe said simply. “Maybe it’s his sister. I don’t much about his personal life, so I’m afraid I can’t help with that one.”

Still, her heart swelled. He'd known that she wasn’t here; he'd asked for her. That had to be a good sign—it meant he was more aware, which in turn meant perhaps his fever was breaking.

“Off you go,” she motioned to the door. “Thank you for your help—I felt much better, knowing he was in capable hands.”

Edya seemed…almost pleased at the compliment.

She really was just a child. Calanthe’s heart ached anew.

“Edya,” she called gently, and the girl stopped just before she reached the door, turning back to her. “Stelen…did you truly want to marry him?”

Edya fluttered a bit at the question. “Yes, I _do_ want to marry him. He's…handsome and charming and….”

She faltered. Calanthe’s suspicions were confirmed.

“And he’s got a temper on him,” Calanthe added quietly.

“No,” Edya returned, with a shake of her head. “No, he’s just….passionate. As men can be.”

_Oh my dear child_ , Calanthe thought with a wry smirk. Her gaze slid over to the bedroom, where Eist was still sleeping peacefully. _The things I could tell you about the passion of men—this one is the most passionate thing I have ever known and yet he would be dead and buried for centuries before he ever even thought of treating anyone with such aggression and disrespect._

“Sometimes you need…more than just passion,” Calanthe pointed out softly.

“No,” Edya repeated, surprising Calanthe with her sudden sense of resolution. “I won’t spend my life in a dull, boring little village like Velhad, married to a dull, boring little man and raising his dull, boring little children. Stelen will take me to Lan Exeter, and we will be happy, I know it.”

Oh, the certainty of youth. Calanthe began to realize that Edya might be more practical than she'd given her credit for being. Stelen was her ticket to a better, more exciting life—probably her only chance of leaving Velhad. At least in the normal way of things.

“You don’t need Stelen to leave Velhad, you know,” Calanthe offered. “You can just…go, all on your own. Make a life for yourself, however you see fit.”

Edya all but sneered. “That’s how girls end up at the docks, wearing their red shawls and taking any sailor with a coin for the night.”

She shook her head, looking at Calanthe as if she were the naïve one. “Human girls don’t have the same options as monsters, Lioness.”

“Half-monsters,” Calanthe corrected. Edya blinked, but didn’t reply. So she simply said, “Thank you again for your help, Edya.”

The young girl merely nodded, then opened the door and disappeared.

Their stories were entirely different, but Calanthe still felt a kinship to the girl. In the years before she became a hunter, she would have done anything for adventure, for passion, for a man who could save her from her own life and give her such things.

But with age came wisdom—and she truly knew there was more to a love affair than just passion. There needed to be tenderness, affection, a shared sense of humor—the things that remained after the first blush of excitement faded into mundanity.

And love, of course. Genuine love that ran beyond the surface of attraction.

All the things she had with Eist, truth be told.

She gingerly opened the doors into the bedroom, her chest tightening at the sight of him resting. He looked better, didn’t he? Still pale, but less sweaty. She moved closer, almost instinctively reaching to stroke his face again.

She stopped when she actually saw her hand, still bloody and dirty. Slowly she retreated, holding her hand against her stomach.

A harbinger in all things.

She moved to the wash basin, determinedly rolling up her sleeves and scrubbing her hands clean. She forced herself to keep her head down, to not look in the mirror. She could feel the rawness of her skin, easily enough. She knew it wouldn’t be a pretty sight—and she didn’t have time to deal with it, not now, not until Eist was taken care of.

She dried her hands, took a deep breath, and made her way back into the main room, quietly closing the doors behind her.

She pulled the wolfsbane out of her saddle bag, sorting out a small amount and bundling it with twine before hanging it out of the window to dry in the summer sun.

Then she returned to the table, taking another breath as she pulled together the ingredients to create another poultice.

She was a harbinger, since the hour of her birth. Bred and born and built for destruction. But she’d force her hands into creation and salvation, force them until they bled, if it brought him back. She was a harbinger down to her bones—and she’d break as many of them as necessary.

She could do it. She _would_ do it.

* * *

“Easy, easy, my love—”

Eist frowned slightly, slowly letting the familiar voice register in his fuzzy mind.

_My love_. Calanthe’s voice, talking to him. Calanthe’s hand, stroking across his face, applying a compress to his head that felt divinely cool and comforting.

Warmth on his arm. But not the burning of before. Good warmth, he decided.

_My love_. His heart did a little skitter at the thought, at how heavy and soft it sounded, on her lips.

“We’re getting there,” she decreed quietly. He felt the light press of her hand on his chest, weighted and certain. “Your fever’s breaking. We’re getting there. It’s going to be alright. Just rest.”

Her fingers lightly brushed against his lips. Then she was gently opening his mouth, pushing something under his tongue. An oddly familiar taste blossomed across his tastebuds, and then he tumbled into darkness again. Even as he drifted, he felt her hand on his cheek, anchoring him, keeping him safe.

He felt it, even in her fingertips: _My love._


	16. Here

Waking was like being brought in by the tide: slow pulls of consciousness, then sliding back into hazy sleep, followed by another moment of awareness. Eist seemed to hang there for ages, before fully slipping back into his own body, feeling the bed around him.

It was warm, but not Calanthe-warm. The air was heavy, tinged with the scent of smoke. He slowly opened his eyes, saw a warm glow on the ceiling. He took a few beats to merely listen. He could hear soft shuffling sounds, the almost-lyrical tinkling of water into a basin, the occasional crack of the log in the fireplace in the main room. He breathed deeply, trying to assess his body.

He felt…clearer than he had in a long time. More energetic, more alive. His arm wasn’t throbbing with pain (it didn’t hurt at all, actually), and he felt…rested. Truly rested.

He heard more water lightly splashing. He shifted quietly, raising his head to look through the open doors and into the main room.

The sight made his heart clench. Calanthe was standing at the end of the table, her back turned to him as she washed her hair in the hand basin, the fire on the opposite end of the room outlining her in a golden glow. She was wearing thin linen breeches and nothing more, her skin practically glowing, as it usually did when she got too warm.

The water must have been cool—or maybe she was just that overheated, given the fire roaring in the hearth, which certainly made the room far warmer than would be comfortable for her—because he could see the outline of steam curling off her shoulders and the top of her head.

He suddenly felt two hungers—one physically attached to the sudden gnawing feeling in his stomach, and another, equally physical but attached entirely outside his own body, to the woman across the room. He slowly sat up, feeling a measure of surprise that his head didn’t spin. He looked down at his shirt, tried to run his fingers through his hair, certain that he looked an absolute fright. She’d seen him at far worse, he realized—and she’d stayed.

He took a beat to watch her body shift and move as she leaned over the basin, pulling her fingers through her hair. The closer scrutiny brought two things into focus: a large bruise across her spine, and a curved cut on her shoulder.

Worry overpowered all other emotions and sensations. He gingerly slipped out of bed. As he moved forward, Calanthe caught the sound and turned to face him, her expression breaking into a mixture of delight and concern.

Her face. Her beautiful, beautiful face—the right side had a bruise along her temple, and the left was scrubbed raw, with a matching burn along her collarbone. The left corner of her lip had a cut on it, too. There were patches of red, raw skin on her lower abdomen as well, and a bruise on her right side that made him softly exhale at its size and brutal coloring—he couldn’t tell if there was further damage on her legs because of the breeches, but his veins swirled with worry and pain at what he did see.

She noticed his gaze, her fingertips lightly coming to the side of her face, not quite touching it. “It looks worse than it is, I promise.”

“What happened?” He asked softly, his heart aching as he moved closer.

“I took a tumble down the mountain,” she offered.

"Are you—"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, and I'd rather not—we can talk about it later." She was reaching for him, her hands softly fluttering over the lines of his shoulders and directing him to the chair that she’d moved out of the way, so that she could stand over the table to wash her hair. “You should—you shouldn’t try moving so much.”

“I’m fine,” he reassured her. He sat, but kept his hands on her hips. Given her lack of clothing, his current position put him at a rather lovely angle.

She gave him a critical look, softly placing the back of her hand on his forehead. “Your fever’s gone, that’s for certain.”

“I’m not surprised. I had a wonderfully attentive nursemaid.”

She blushed and ducked her head at that. Then he hadn’t imagined it all, in his fevered haze, he thought. She really had said the things that still echoed in his heart; she really had touched him with such tenderness and affection.

_My love._

She lightly tugged at his shirt, silently directing him to remove it.

“Goodness, woman, I just woke up.” As if his mind hadn’t already gone there.

She huffed at that. “You've spent nearly forty-eight hours doing nothing but sweating. Trust me, you need a bath.”

He let her remove the shirt, bringing his hands back to her hips and holding her steady as she twisted, turning back to the basin and taking a washcloth from its side. 

Calanthe felt the slight jerking in her muscles, the way her body twitched with the need to just collapse into his arms and unleash the flood of emotions churning through her chest. The soft, pained look in his eyes, when he’d seen her injuries—she’d known instantly that she couldn’t burden him with the truth, even as she ached to tell him everything, to let him hold her and tell her that it was alright, that she was forgiven, that they would be just fine. The simple sight of him, standing on his own two feet, bright-eyed and truly awake again—she wanted to cry at that, too, but in joy and delight. His fever had broken earlier (hence her actually taking a moment to bathe—she’d hoped to make herself a bit more presentable before he woke, to better hide her wounds a little longer) and she’d known he’d pull through, but still, it felt like a small miracle, to see him back into himself again.

She tried to control her breathing, tried to push back the tears and focus on the moment.

She kept the cloth in her right hand, tracing over the line of his shoulder as her left smoothed along after it, the heat of her palm keeping him from feeling a chill. Eist suspected that some of it was simply her wanting to touch him, to reassure herself that he was here.

“Nearly forty-eight hours?” He echoed quietly, his throat suddenly feeling a bit thick. She’d truly worried over him, and while he hated putting her through any form of stress or upset, the realization of how deeply she cared did send a flush of emotion through his chest.

She hummed at that, the line at the corner of her mouth reappearing as she leaned back to rewet the cloth. The firelight dancing on her bare skin was a delicious distraction. But then his gaze came back to the bruise on her side, and he tamped down the wave of immediate concern, the desire to ask more questions, to make sure she was truly alright.

“I was…quite concerned, for a while,” she admitted softly, dipping her head again as she concentrated on washing his chest. He countered her movements, letting his hands come up to her shoulders, fingertips trilling down to her elbows.

“I wasn’t,” he returned. She blinked, taking a beat to meet his gaze. He felt his heart swell and his lungs tighten. He could barely whisper, “I could hear you telling me that it would all be alright. And I knew it would be, because you’d set your mind to it.”

He couldn’t stop the soft smile creeping across his face; didn’t want to anyways. She tensed—she knew the rest of what he must have heard, too. His heart was beating a little too fast, he thought, a little too loudly. He had the distinct understanding that this was the moment they were truly on the cliff’s edge—he wouldn’t push her into saying anything, but how she approached this moment would decide so much between them.

She was standing still, eyes still locked onto his.

“And did you…” She took a breath, steadying herself. “Hear other things?”

“Yes,” he returned, simply and softly.

She took a beat to look at him. Then she stood up straight again, turning to rewet the washcloth before focusing back on her task.

So they weren’t going to talk about it, then, he realized, with a slight flutter of disappointment. She may have called him her love when he was ill and possibly dying, but it must have been a thing of pure emotional distress, or perhaps her attempts to give him comfort in what she might have thought were his last hours. She was a soft thing; it wouldn’t surprise him if she had simply been trying to give him compassion and kindness in the small act.

Calanthe cleared her throat softly. She could hardly hear over the pulse pounding in her ears, and each beat was like a drum, calling her to arms, to action, to finally say what she’d truly been allowing herself to feel for over a week now. She’d made a promise of sorts, to any gods that might have happened to actually listen to the prayers and pleadings she’d made over the past two days: _bring him back to me, and I’ll make a fool of myself a thousand times over, I’ll break my own heart confessing my love, I'll endure any ill, any pain, if it brings him back._

Maybe some particularly pitying deity had listened. Maybe her own skills had saved him. Maybe he’d saved himself. Regardless, there was a debt to be paid, in some way, and Calanthe never liked owing anyone for anything.

He was back, and regardless of whether the debt actually existed, she truly did love him. So she steeled herself and pushed ahead.

“Did you hear me call you…my love?”

Her tone tried so hard to remain nonchalant and distant. Her hands were running over the same spot on his shoulder, over and over again, like she was trying to distract herself. Eist looked up slightly, literally face to face with her ribs and the proof of how quick and shallow her breaths were, how every muscle in her frame was tight and tense. Her words stumbled, barely choking their way out of her throat, “Because you are—I do—love.”

He slowly shifted further back, so that he could look fully into her face. Her gaze flicked back to meet his, warm and slightly terrified.

Eist was looking up at her with such gentle wonder, his blue eyes filled with hope and fear and confusion. Somehow, Calanthe felt her heartbeat speed up and slow to nothingness, at the exact same time.

There was something so adorable about his expression, something still small and in need of comfort—she wanted to take his face in her hands and kiss it, kiss his nose and his cheeks and his softly-opened mouth. Yes, she loved him. There was no doubt about it.

Still, a stone of worry tumbled in her gut. He cared for her, she knew that beyond all doubt. He’d willingly sacrificed himself for her. But he still might not love her back—not in that way—or he might simply not want to pursue it (and gods above, he’d have good reason). That didn’t matter either, she realized. Her love existed, with or without his in return. So if he didn’t share her feelings, so what? Eist was still noble; he’d leave Velhad early if she asked, let her handle the final werewolf alone (that was the only option, because no way in hell could she leave, leave him in potential danger ever again, as long as she lived). They could go their separate ways, no need to prolong things. Because if he didn’t love her…well, it didn’t really matter.

But those eyes. Those siren eyes still called her in, called her to confess. Those eyes told her that perhaps, all her worry didn’t matter, either.

She swallowed hard, trying to remember how to breathe.

“What I meant—what I mean is I do…love you.”

There, she’d finally said it. Somehow, it didn’t ease the vise-like grip on her lungs—no, in fact, the look in those beautiful blue eyes only made the breathless feeling worse.

She felt Eist’s hands on her hips again, felt the slow pressure of his fingertips, sinking further into her flesh, keeping her from floating away entirely.

“You do?” His voice was soft, shocked, almost reverent.

“Of course,” she said simply, before she could truly even consider her answer. Her hand fluttered, almost touching his forehead, almost cupping his cheek, almost stroking his shoulder, never actually alighting anywhere, still a bit frightened and overwhelmed. “How could I—how could I not?”

So _this_ would be the end of him, Eist thought numbly. Granted, he’d had suspicions before this moment, given the way things had changed between them on this hunt. But even after what he’d heard during his fevered state, he still hadn’t been certain that it was real, that it wasn’t just heightened emotion or an attempt to provide comfort on her part or sheer wishful thinking on his. But now she was looking at him, cheeks blushing and eyes simmering with affection, softly erasing all doubt.

He dipped his head, pulling her hips closer and nuzzling into the softness of her stomach. He felt the small shift as she exhaled, her tension melting away.

 _How could I not?_ His mind echoed, and his heart returned the sentiment with every ounce of its being. Because how could he ever recover from this? How could he not love her, somehow even more than he had before? How could he ever expect to survive this now?

If this was his curse, he’d gladly bear it. He pressed a kiss into her skin, then pulled back to hoarsely whisper, “I love you, too.”

The cloth landed with a wet smack on the floor. Both of her hands were in his hair now, stroking down his neck, over his shoulders with grateful relief.

 _It’s not a curse, if it’s requited_ , he thought again. He wrapped his arms around her fully, pulling her in to straddle his lap. She followed along, her hands coming to his hair again as she nuzzled into a kiss, sighing softly when their lips finally did meet. He felt her chest shuddering against his, heard the little grateful sob she tried to stifle.

She pulled back from the kiss a little, whispering, “Don’t you ever do that to me again, Eist Tuirseach.”

“What? Tell you that I love you?” He couldn’t help but tease, just a little. She huffed at that.

“Leave me…alone, like that.” She still clarified, even though she knew that he was fully aware of what she'd meant in the first place.

He made a low noise of comfort and understanding, kissing the corner of her mouth. _My love_ , his heart echoed again. Nearly forty-eight hours, she’d worried over him. He felt another pang of guilt. If she’d been in danger for forty-eight hours straight, he’d go insane, he thought.

Calanthe shifted, turning her head to simply rest against his shoulder, her hands still making small, grateful circles along his back. She’d been frightened before—when facing her own death at the hands of a monster, and yes, a little, when Stelen had attacked her the day before—but nothing had compared to the terror and helplessness she’d felt while wondering if Eist would survive. She hadn’t fully allowed herself to think what might happen, how he might not pull through—but now that he had, she realized how close he’d been to the edge. She’d wept, when his fever broke. She wanted to weep again now.

He held her tighter, and she felt a light twinge of discomfort across her bruised ribs. He sensed her sudden tension and released his hold, the curiosity evident in his frame. She sat back a bit, putting a little space between their bodies.

“Just a little tender,” she admitted. “From the tumble.”

 _Tumble_ , his mind mused. It looked like far more than that. “What were you doing on the mountain?”

“We needed more wolfsbane.”

“Ah.”

“Ah,” she repeated. Her fingertips lightly traced down his chest, setting off ripples of heat through his veins. His hands wandered, slipping to the curve of her ass and pulling her farther in again. She hummed in amusement, well-aware of what he wanted. “Perhaps you should take some time to fully recuperate.”

“Or perhaps I should prove just how fully recovered I am,” he countered, leaning in to nip along the line of her shoulder. She hummed at that, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. But her fingers flexed into his skin and he felt the added flush to hers, radiating against him as keenly as the flames of a fire. She was mimicking his movements, her lips brushing over his shoulder, up the side of his neck.

She still touched him so tenderly, as if he were some delicate thing, as if she feared breaking him. It wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted them to be like they were, the night he got ill—before, when they’d tumbled across the bed, joyful and glad to be alive, panting and happy and light.

He wanted more than that, he realized. He wanted the same feeling he’d felt upon waking, the possessive hunger that had sparked in him, from the moment he’d lain eyes on her tonight. He kept his left hand on her ass, bringing his right up to the back of her neck to hold her in place as he slowly added teeth and depth to his kisses, coming back to her neck. She arched into him, skin blossoming hotter in silent approval. She nipped at his earlobe, huffing when he sucked particularly hard at the base of her neck. Soon she wasn’t doing anything at all, trying not to disturb his efforts and simply letting him take what he wanted.

Her eager sense of compliance only fueled the feeling growing in his chest. He directed her mouth back to his and she melted into him, moaning softly as she opened up, letting his tongue in farther.

Calanthe’s head was spinning. The practical side of her nature warned that Eist, despite obviously feeling better, was not fully recovered and should be resting. The primal side just outright screeched with want and need, and it seemed to be winning.

He was real. Solid beneath her, around her. Alive and strong and here, with her, in every sense. _I love you_ , he’d said, and now he was showing her. And oh, how she wanted to be shown.

She’d never been a passive thing, in any aspect of her life. But she was fascinated by this moment, by him, by exactly what might happen if she simply let him—let him take, let him give, let him do whatever he wanted, to show her that he loved her.

Yes, this was fascinating…and quite simply, hot. He gave a soft growl as he pushed his tongue past her teeth, obviously approving the way she melted in response—and oh, she only melted more at that sound, at the reflexive dig of his fingertips into her hip, the sheer possessive want of the simple action.

She wanted to melt _more_ , to pour out like candlewax into his hands. Wanted him to have her, however he wanted—whatever he wanted, it was what she wanted, too.

Eist could feel the push of heat from Calanthe’s skin, already making his own begin to sweat at the close contact and the added warmth from the fire in the hearth. She was leaning back slightly, turning her head to the side so that he had better access to her neck and shoulder—even in the dim light, he could see just how deeply red her skin was already, and he could certainly feel its warmth against his mouth. He pulled her back into him and kissed the spot where her shoulder met her arm, smiling softly at the way she curled into his touch, seeking out more.

But the shift gave him a glimpse over her right shoulder—and the cut from her ax blade, still healing from her fall.

He pulled back, quietly asking, “How do you feel, after your tumble—can you—”

“Fine, I’m fine, I can—do anything you want.” It was all a breathless rush, and he couldn’t help but grin at the desperation lining her tone.

Still. “Cal, I’m serious—”

“So am I.” She sat back, fully meeting his gaze. “When you wanted to fuck with an injured arm, I raised my concerns, naturally—but did I _stop_ you?”

“No.”

“Right. Because I trusted you to truly know your limits. Extend me the same courtesy.” She was practically pouting at the moment, and it was adorable. She saw his amusement and did not share it. She shifted forward, bringing her lips to his ear and her hand to the back of his neck, pressing in just enough to impart the seriousness of her words. “I can handle anything you throw at me, Eist Tuirseach. And then some.”

Heaven help him, his entire body rippled at the absolute challenge in her tone. She could sense it, because her teeth came out to play, nipping at his ear. “Don’t hold back, love. Show me.”

Oh, how he wanted to do just that. But still, he hesitated, “You’ll—you’ll tell me, if it’s too much?”

She softened, sitting back to make eye contact again as she smiled. Her fingertips trilled through the scruff along his jaw. “Yes, you sweet thing. Just—mind the ribs and maybe not a lot of tossing or rolling around, and we’ll be fine. Now, can you _please_ bring back the man who grabbed my arse and made me think he was going to fuck me over the table?”

He laughed at the impatience in her tone, at the beleaguered expression on her face, as if his concern for her wellbeing was a burden too great to bear.

Calanthe’s chest felt a bit too tight, at the sound of his laughter, the look of delighted amusement on his face, the shine in his blue eyes.

He was here. Truly _here_ , with her, again. She wanted to make him laugh even more. Wanted to tell him about the cheese and a dozen other little moments that meant absolutely nothing but would make him smile or roll his eyes in amusement. She wanted to tell him everything he’d missed—yes, even about Stelen. She wanted to share, to be shared, with him.

Because she loved him. She could say that now—not even just in the confines of her mind, but out loud, to his face. She felt another ripple of joy at the thought. He knew. He felt the same. He knew. He wanted things to continue, wanted exactly what she wanted. He knew.

Still, she found herself smiling, pulling him closer as she murmured, “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful thing.”

He made a slight noise of approval as she shifted her whole body into his, her center settling over his cock, whose hardness she could already feel through the layers of clothing between them.

“I should become deathly ill more often,” he teased. She hummed at that, nipping his bottom lip. His hands came back to her arse, pulling her further into him. She made a soft sound at the feeling and he nuzzled into her neck again, his teeth coming out to play once more.

“I’d absolutely murder you if you did,” she informed him.

“You’re absolutely murdering me now,” he returned, words half-muffled by her skin.

“And tell me, which of those deaths do you prefer?”

He hummed, obviously knowing the correct answer. Still, he gave a small kiss to the curve of her shoulder. “As long as it’s with you, I don’t much care.”

“Oh, really?” She felt a flash of mischief. She couldn’t help herself. She felt giddy, almost reckless with joy. With a single push, she was on her feet again, slipping out of his grasp. Breezily she drawled, “If you don’t care, then you won’t mind if—”

He was on his feet in a flash, pulling her body back into his so forcefully that it pushed all the air straight out of her lungs. She looked up at him, her chest flushing with a wave of unbearable heat when she met his gaze, seeing only the slightest hints of blue in all the darkness and absolute glittering want.

Oh, he cared. He cared very much. She knew she was staring, outright gawping at the man, but she was helpless to do anything else. He looked absolutely wild and she wanted nothing more than to be overcome by that wildness.

“Please.” She heard her own voice whisper, though she wasn’t sure how—she couldn’t think of anything past those eyes, that face lined with intensity, that body so solid and strong and alive against hers.

Eist was certain his heart would simply beat straight out of his chest, right into hers. She had told him that she loved him, and now, all she wanted was him. It was clear as day, from the heat of her skin, to the feel of her body melting further into him, to the look of desperate adoration in those wide and wanting eyes as she simply stared up at him, mouth still softly open as if completely transfixed. He could feel the wave of her charm pushing and pulling against his skin, almost like a puppy tugging on a lead, begging to play, to be unleashed.

 _Wholehearted_ , his brain clicked with understanding. Her love for him was wholehearted, not an ounce less.

He had never hoped for such a thing, from anyone. The nature of his charms meant that people willingly fell to his seductions and soothings, but in the end, they almost always knew what he was, somehow, even when he didn’t announce his maternal gifts. They wanted to be charmed by him, for a moment, for a little while—but none wanted to be _loved_ by him, never wanted anything past the passing interaction.

He’d thought, in the beginning, that the novelty of being with someone whose traits both contradicted and complemented hers was Calanthe’s reason for returning, time and again. Then he’d decided that, quite simply, it was the sex itself that kept her coming back. Since the revelation of Calanthe’s lack of knowledge on creatures of charm, he’d realized that she had simply assumed their couplings had always been inevitable before—not because of his nature, but rather her own desires and her (nonexistent) abilities to make them realities.

But now? Maybe not since the beginning, but maybe for a while now, she’d always returned because of something else. Something far beyond novelty or lust or fascination or even the allure of his charms.

She loved him.

He wondered how he hadn’t seen it before. Now it was all he could see—it was practically radiating out of her, as palpably as the actual heat of her skin, screaming from the depths of those big dark eyes which were still looking up at him, still shining and somehow small, as if still frightened.

He thought of the way she trembled, when she confessed. The way her body seemed to still entirely as she held her breath. She didn’t know. Of course—she _knew_ , technically, because he’d told her that he loved her, too. But she didn’t truly know just how deeply, just how equally-felt this love was.

He could change that—and he would. He mimicked their position from earlier, sliding his right hand to the back of her neck and into her hair, holding her hip with his left as he kissed her. His head spun at the little needy noise she made in response, at the way she rose up on her tip-toes to push farther into him. He tightened his grip and slipped his tongue past her teeth. Her knees buckled and he felt an immeasurable sense of satisfaction at the little act of submission. He pushed forward, moving them both closer to the table without breaking the kiss, and she followed along easily, wrapping her arms around his neck for support.

The table legs scraped against the wood floor when she fully bumped into it, and he felt another wash of delight, feeling the way the realization rippled through her body. Calanthe’s left arm came back, fumbling along the table—Eist heard the splash of water and suddenly remembered that the wash basin was in the way. He leaned in, using the back of his hand to sweep across the table.

Eist’s left arm was firmly around her waist, arching her back into him as he leaned in, the swift motion of his right hand filling Calanthe with a sudden rush of heat at the decisiveness and aggression. There was a commotion, the basin sloshing out water before the sound of clattering, metal upon wood as it continued circling around the floor. She couldn’t stop the soft moan of approval—his recklessness was catching, she realized, and she wanted nothing more than to encourage it. Then his hands were lifting her, setting her on the table with such emphasis that her skin began to sing with anticipation. His hands were moving swiftly, untying her breeches—her throat caught at the firelight on his face, the angle of his features as he focused his gaze on her ties, the glow to his skin that had been missing for days, the vibrance and health and _life_ radiating through every inch of his frame now.

Gods, he was beautiful. She felt the last tie give way and she pushed her hands into the table, lifting her hips to help him slide her breeches further down her legs, but she couldn’t stop staring at his face, watching the concentration and determination playing across his features.

 _I love you_ , her heart cried out, and then it absolutely sang with joy—because now, it was a thing she could say out loud, no longer hidden or ignored. He knew. He knew, and he loved her, too.

The thought did nothing to quell the heat pounding through every inch of her body. Her breeches were fully off and her hands reached for him, wrapping her legs around him as she sighed in delight at the feeling of his chest against her lips.

Eist paused for a beat, letting Calanthe savor the moment—she was still so joyously grateful, and he couldn’t help but adore the softness of her, coupled with the feral energy running just beneath. She dragged her open mouth across his chest, the heavy heat of her breath making her seem even more dragon-like than ever. He gently reached up, relishing the smoothness of her shoulders and pushing a slight bit of cooling sensation into her skin.

“No.” She kept her voice quiet, raspy and reverent and needy. “I want—I want it to be too much. Let me burn.”

His eyes closed at the raw edge to her tone, at the thought of her earlier, melting and pliant in his arms.

 _Too much_. He could give her too much, he knew beyond all certainty. He could feel the wave rising in him, could feel the absolute need to have her, exactly as she’d asked—he could push her beyond her limits, he could have her burning and begging, he could prove that he loved her, just as much, just as deeply, just as fiercely.

His left hand slipped to the back of her neck, pulling her back enough to direct her into a kiss. She hummed in approval, grabbing his hips and pulling herself up to meet him. He let his teeth come out and her fingers flexed into his flesh, her delighted moan only goading him further.

He brought his other hand to her neck as well, holding her in place as he dove deeper into her mouth. Her hands came to his wrists, fingertips pressing into his pulse points. She whimpered and shivered, and his head spun faster.

 _Chase_ , his mind screamed, and he obeyed. He chased the sounds she made, holding on tighter, bruising her lips against his own. He felt the backs of her calves, tightening around his legs, felt her hands stroking up and down his forearms in encouragement, felt the needy sounds vibrating up her throat, all the way into his own, felt the overwhelming pull of her charm, practically screaming her desires into his own mind, and he chased every sensation, pushing her for more.

Calanthe's whole body shook with want. She’d told Eist that she’d wanted it to be too much, but she wasn’t actually sure that she could physically handle the overwhelm. Her eyes couldn’t open, her head swirled at a dizzying pace as the heat in her veins made her lightheaded and electric-feeling. Her hands were skittering helplessly, blindly fumbling to find the ties on Eist’s breeches, undoing them just enough to push her hand underneath. She nearly cried when her hand found his cock, already so hard and hot against her palm. She began stroking, far too gone to worry about tempering her touch.

Then his hand, like a vise on her wrist, pulling her back, pinning her hand to the table. His right hand was still firmly holding the back of her neck, slipping down to her shoulder to guide her back—there was a careful slowness to his movements, so cautious not to hurt her, but the authority and control were still screamingly clear. Her core tightened and ached at the burning look in his eyes as he fully laid her across the table, his hands trailing down her body to rest on her hips as he took a beat to simply stare at her.

Eist knew beyond all doubt that he’d gladly put his life on the line again, if this was his reward for surviving. Calanthe was completely sprawled across the table, arms out by her side in a gesture of soft surrender, the firelight dancing over her skin almost as entrancingly as the darkness dancing in her eyes as she watched him, simmering and affectionate. He slowly finished untying his breeches, taking delight in the way she shifted slightly to watch, her chest rising and falling more rapidly with each passing beat. Her fingertips flexed into the wooden tabletop, barely restraining herself from reaching for him again—he felt his chest tighten with adoration anew for the woman and all the ways she tried to give him more. Still, her legs did shift a little wider, almost involuntarily, when he finally pushed his breeches off his hips.

He took his time, slowly taking them off fully, using the moment to lean in a bit more, to feel the heat from her thighs radiating against his face. She whined at that—he saw the way her entire body tensed, as if it took every ounce of control not to react.

He stood up fully, taking her hips again and slowly pushing inside her. He could see the moment she stopped to hold her breath, the way her hands gripped the sides of the tabletop to pull herself farther down, closer to him, the sudden flush that blossomed across her skin as her eyes fluttered shut.

She really was burning. Her thighs around his hips were almost too hot, almost too much. The added flush didn’t make her glow like fire—it tinged her skin darker, creating even more shadow in the firelight, more coal than flame. And her eyes (those eyes, they’d be the death of him) were black as the night, locked onto him with sheening desperation.

And still she waited. He slowly pulled back, pushing into her again. She let out a small noise of approval, the lines in her shoulders tensing as she gripped the table harder.

“Please,” she said simply, tightening her thighs around him. _Let me burn_ , her words echoed in his head.

He gripped her tighter, holding her in place as he truly began to move. She closed her eyes and made a small sound of relief, tilting her chin further to the ceiling.

Dazedly, Calanthe thought it was rather fortunate that it was the dead of night and there would be no one in the apothecary below. The table was making an awful racket—or rather the force of Eist’s thrusts were, moving her and the table with every push and pull. She thought of him pushing the basin aside, thought of the way he’d held her and pushed his way into her mouth with his tongue, assertive and possessive in a way that felt oddly freeing.

She didn’t care if she wasn’t physically capable of handling the overwhelm. She still wanted it, so badly that her teeth ached at the thought. Her knuckles were already feeling tight and stiff from gripping onto the table—still, she had no choice but to hold on tighter as the wave rose inside her chest, more stifling heat and a dizzying rush of adrenaline. She could feel her legs lifting, entirely of their own accord, knees widening to let him in as deeply possible as her ankles moved higher, toes touching behind his back. She was already sweating and she could feel the slickness of his skin too, adding electricity to every shift and movement. For once, his hands felt hot instead of soothingly cool, and she felt another ripple of heat prickle over her entire body at the sensation.

Her ribs still hurt like hell, her current near-hyperventilation not helping the bruised muscles, but her other injuries were surprisingly undisturbed. Perhaps because at this position, there wasn’t much movement on her part. Eist had her absolutely pinned to the table; she wasn’t going anywhere at all.

The thought sent another shiver down her spine, and Eist gave a small growl of approval. He held on tighter and began moving faster. She forced her eyes open, watching him with a mixture of love and absolute lust. If he wasn’t currently fucking her senseless at this very moment, she’d absolutely pin him down and have him now.

How was it possible to want something so desperately, even as you were already enjoying it? Her head spun at the paradox. Regardless of its mystery, the situation certainly did exist—her entire body ignited into heavier heat, and she craved him, craved more of every moment.

Then he looked up and met her gaze and the world seemed to go completely silent, completely still.

Yes, she now knew that in order for his siren charms to work, she had to willingly let them. But she was already too far gone, utterly helpless.

 _Let me drown_ , she thought numbly. _Love me and let me drown_.

She felt her body tumbling and quaking, uncertain of how she’d climaxed and still feeling disconnected from the physicality of the moment. She knew she was arching because her view of the room shifted slightly—she saw her own foot, over his shoulder, flexing and twittering, but it was all sight, no sensation.

Calanthe had never been a particularly quiet thing, Eist noted, but she was far from her usual vocalness tonight. She was huffing and keening slightly, but for the most part, she simply stared at him in open-mouthed want and wonder. He felt her clenching around him, watched her seize and shiver with a sharp gasp—and all his mind could think was _chase_ again. He let go of her hips, gripped the sides of the table, and truly chased her reactions, chased the feelings she drove through his veins like wildfire. Her skin was so hot that it truly burned now, but he relished the feeling, the weight of her legs around him, tightening more and more with each thrust of his hips.

Without his hands to hold her in place, Calanthe felt herself sliding along the table more—she gripped the edges harder and focused on her thighs, on holding on to him as much as possible while giving his hips room to truly move. She could feel the tension thrumming through his body, could feel how he was about to break, and she encouraged him with small noises and _pleases_ , far from capable of actual words but rather certain that he understood her intentions all the same.

She was beginning to settle back into her body again, to truly feel the heat from him moving inside her, to hear the sounds of her own breathing and the screeching scratch of the table on the wooden floor, the frenetic pace only intensifying the sensation of his thrusts. Her lungs suddenly filled with a need to scream. She pressed her lips into a hard line, fought back the urge. Fire rippled through her chest and her skin flushed with a new wave of heat and sweat.

Suddenly, Eist was shifting back again, grabbing her hips and lifting them higher, ramming into her one last time. She couldn’t stop herself from crying out as she watched him come, completely overwhelmed by the sight of him holding her so possessively, the look of needy relief washing over his handsome features, the corresponding clench and twitter of her own body as she felt him shudder inside her.

He simply held her there for a beat. Then slowly withdrew, gingerly setting her hips back on the table and bracing himself against it as well.

“Well,” she huffed, once she had breath enough to speak. “I dare say you have recovered quite nicely.”

He chuckled breathlessly at that. Sank lower to nuzzle the tip of his nose against her stomach. Her hands came to his hair, pulling through it in slow, measured beats. Her fingers were absolutely screaming from clutching the table for dear life, but oh, some things were worth a little agony.

He leaned in, slipping his hands underneath her to wrap his arms around her fully, pulling her up to sit. She held onto his shoulders and came along easily, ducking her head to nuzzle against his chest. Her body still felt too electric, skittering with aftershocks, still too hyper-aware of everything, and simply touching his skin with her own was enough to make her shiver again. She closed her eyes against the dizzy feeling, pressing herself further against him like an anchor. His heart was beating, steady and hard, against her cheek—she wanted to cry, suddenly.

She felt the sudden coolness in his hands, slipping down her spine in a soothing cadence, over and over again, like water trickling down a mountain, settling her back into her bones once more.

The thought of water made her shift, looking past him to the overturned basin. “So much for a bath, I suppose.”

“I’ll go fetch you more,” he promised softly, kissing the top of her head.

“I’d tell you not to overdo it,” she drawled. “But I think we’re a bit past that point.”

He hummed in amused agreement before shifting to recapture her mouth in a kiss. She made a small noise of approval, wrapping her arms around him and pulling their chests together again.

Then she pulled back, shifting to lightly grab his left wrist, bringing his arm in front of her. “Let’s take a look at your wound.”

Calanthe held her breath slightly as she pulled away the last of the linen wrapping, fingers delicately removing the poultice strip.

She felt a wash of surprise. “It’s…it looks extremely well-healed.”

He hummed at that.

“No, I mean—miraculously so,” she reiterated, frowning slightly as she angled a bit, bringing his arm more into the light. “Even without infection, it shouldn’t be this healed, this soon.”

“I’ve always healed faster than the average human,” he pointed out quietly. She looked up, brows quirking in surprise.

“Have you?” Her voice was lined with caution.

He nodded. “Always.”

Concern fluttered across her features, but then she gave a single nod. He gave her a quick kiss on the nose.

“See? Just like you promised: everything will be alright.”

* * *

Eist pushed open the final window in the main room, relishing the cool night breeze. They’d put out the fire, but the heat definitely lingered. He felt content and whole again—Calanthe had put together a dinner for him, from things that the villagers had brought round over the past few days (and yes, she’d told him about her lie, about the cheese, and Hene and Zagradd’s response, and he’d merely laughed and kissed her, absolutely in love with this woman and her ridiculous need to win everything), and after he’d eaten, they’d quietly bathed by the fire, soft and smiling and warm. She hadn’t declared her love again, at least not with words—but she’d still shown it, through her smiles and touches and tender concernities.

He turned to glance into the bedroom. From this angle, he could see the corner where the basin and the mirror resided. Calanthe stood in front of it, delicately applying ointment to the cuts on her collarbone and face.

She was still completely, gloriously naked. Which only highlighted something Eist hadn’t really taken the time to notice before, in the heat of the moment—she had no bruises or scratches whatsoever on her arms or legs.

A bit odd, if she’d fallen down the mountain. _Tumble_ , she’d called it—implying she’d rolled. But a roll would leave injuries everywhere, not just in a few specific places.

She gingerly combed her hair to one side with her fingers, finding a spot in the hairline at her right temple and applying more ointment.

She’d been hit, he realized with a blink. Someone had hit her, on the side of the head. How or why he thought that, he couldn’t say. But suddenly, he knew it, beyond all doubt.

His gaze dipped lower, to the ugly bruise on her side. It suddenly looked far too perfectly placed.

He quietly made his way into the bedroom. Her dark eyes flicked over to him, the corners of her mouth curling into a brief smile of silent greeting. She went back to her task, focusing on her own reflection again.

He stood behind her, watching her for a beat.

“Cal?”

“Hm.”

“Tell me about this tumble.”

She froze, for a brief flash. She knew that he knew. Then she silently went back to re-arranging her hair, taking the tin of ointment and dabbing her fingertip in it again. She touched up the cut on her lip with extreme concentration.

“I already told you,” she said softly. Still, she didn’t meet his gaze through the reflection.

He reached forward, lightly taking the tin from her hand. He got some ointment and began to delicately cover the cut arcing over her shoulder blade—from her ax, he realized. He let his gaze travel farther down, to the bruise along her spine. Someone had hurt her. Hit her or thrown her or pushed her hard enough to make the ax blade break through layers of clothing and skin, hard enough to leave bruises on her body. He wanted to cry—even more so at the realization that she wouldn’t tell him what had happened. Still, he returned his attention to her cut, swallowing back the fears and tears.

Eist knew she was lying, Calanthe realized, and her throat tightened at the thought. She took a beat to watch him through the mirrored reflection, the careful attention in his expression as he gently treated her wounds.

“Eist.”

He stopped, met her gaze in the mirror.

“If I…if I did something…would you trust me—trust that I only did what I had to do?”

Her eyes were so wide, so soft and pleading. His heart broke then and there, all over again.

“Of course,” he whispered thickly.

“I don’t…want to talk about it yet,” she admitted, blinking quickly. “So please don’t make me lie.”

He merely nodded. Before he could truly consider his words, he heard his own voice softly saying, “I trust you. And when you do want to talk…I’m here.”

Relief and tears flooded those big brown eyes.

“I’m here,” he repeated, almost reverently. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Bile surged up Calanthe’s throat, slamming it shut. She simply watched his blue eyes in the mirror, feeling completely frozen in place by them. She understood the unspoken part of that statement—he loved her, he trusted her, he was here, physically and emotionally, for as long as she wanted, for as long as she needed, for as long as he was able.

“Are you…alright?” He asked quietly. His features were lined with pain, with anxiety and fear.

“Yes,” she returned softly, swallowing the lump in her throat. “It was never anything I couldn’t handle.”

He nodded at that, looking slightly more relieved. Then, he gently leaned forward, setting the tin on the edge of the wash basin again. He lightly placed his hands on her hips, resting his lips on the curve of her shoulder and simply taking a breath.

He seemed to be in physical pain, she noted. The worry affected him so deeply, it made her ache anew—not for herself, but for him.

“It wasn’t a fall,” she confessed. “It was…a person. But I handled it.”

She felt the sudden heaviness in his frame, saw the way his eyes slowly closed under the weight of her admission.

“Please.” He barely lifted his lips from her skin, his voice trembling. “Please, just tell me. It can’t be anything worse than what I’ve already imagined.”

She broke. Told him everything—the altercation with Stelen beforehand, how he didn’t believe she’d been the one to kill the werewolf, and yes, even how she made the situation worse with her own actions. How he must have followed her up the mountain, still fuming and affronted. How he attacked her, and how in turn she killed him.

Perhaps not _quite_ everything. She didn’t mention that Stelen had seen them, that afternoon in the woods, or that he’d called her Eist’s whore—it would only upset him further, entirely unnecessarily. She didn’t go into detail of how he’d spoken to her, or how she’d spoken to him, in the final moments. Didn’t even say how she killed him, or how she left him.

No. She simply ended with the fact that she’d killed him.

Eist kept his head dipped forward, his hands lightly on her upper arms as his mouth rested on the curve of her shoulder, simply waiting. She could feel his breath on her skin, could feel when he held it, when he released it in disappointment as she finished her story.

She'd failed him, again. Had been too quick to anger, too brash as always. He shouldn’t trust her, she thought wildly. He shouldn’t trust her at all, shouldn’t trust her to be anything more than chaos and woeful pride, a harbinger in all things.

“I’m sorry,” she added, with a sharp intake of breath. “I’m sorry, I just keep—I keep making things worse, I know I do—”

“No.” His voice was soft, but emphatic. “No, love, no—this isn’t your fault. You are not responsible for his actions—even after the disagreement in the shop, you couldn’t have possibly predicted that he’d react like that. It’s not—that’s not how normal, decent people respond. I won’t pretend that I regret what happened to him, in the slightest. I only wish I’d been there to help.”

Again, she felt a measure of relief that he hadn’t been. Still, she fumbled, stumbling over her words to reassure him, “I won’t—I’ll try to be better, I promise. I know—with the werewolves, with Stelen, I haven’t been my best, I know I let my nature get the better of me—but I promise, please, I will try to be good—”

He turned her around quickly, so that she was facing him. She stopped at the sudden twirl, her hands lightly bracing against his chest. There were tears in his eyes as his hand came up to cradle the side of her face, thumb reverently brushing over the scratches.

“There’s no need to try,” he informed her, voice thick with emotion. Again, he softly repeated, “There’s no need to try.”

Then, before she could open her mouth to respond, he was hauling her into his arms. She countered, legs coming to wrap around his torso as his hands grabbed her thighs, fully supporting her. She snuggled into the crook of his neck, wrapping her arms around him like a small child being carried off to bed. He simply stood there for a beat, holding her.

He turned his face slightly, pressing a kiss on the side of her head.

“I’m here,” he reminded her simply, and she took a long, deep breath of relief at the thought. His voice trembled with regret, “I’m sorry—I’m sorry that I wasn’t there when…when it happened, when you needed me most—”

“No.” She closed her eyes, held onto him tighter. “No, don’t. I’m alright. I’m safe, you’re safe, we’re here now and that’s all that matters, right?”

He made a small sound of agreement, nuzzling into the curve of her neck. She felt him inhale, long and deep, as if still steeling himself against his own emotions.

She realized that earlier, when he'd exhaled softly at the end of her story, it hadn’t been in disappointment. At least not directed at her. He'd been overwhelmed by his own feelings of worry and regret, and relieved that she was safe in the end.

 _I love you,_ she thought again. _You are beyond anything I deserve and I love you._

“I love you.” He seemed to read her thoughts. His lips placed a tiny, soft kiss on the side of her neck. “I love you and I’m still here.”

She gave a shaky exhale at that _. I’m still here_ —she’d literally confessed to murder (not quite as shocking, considering their profession, but still), and all he’d done was gather her into his arms and reassure her that he loved her. Nothing could sway him, nothing would make him turn away. She absolutely did not deserve him—but then again, she’d known that for quite a while.

He tightened his hold, slowly turning and walking back to the bed. She’d changed the sheets while Eist was eating dinner, and the clean scent of summer sun greeted her as he gently set her on the mattress. She rolled farther in, giving him plenty of space to join her. She looked back expectantly, finding him still standing at the edge of the bed, those beautiful blue eyes still so filled with hurt and regret.

Calanthe sat up slowly, something cautious lining her frame. Eist couldn’t help but focus on the bits of her that were battered and bruised. Gently, she reached out for him, her fingertips brushing against his own. A comfort, and a test, he realized—she was gauging his reaction, seeing if he would pull away from her, now that he knew what she’d done.

But he trusted her. He’d trusted her, even before he’d known what had happened—she was good, even if she didn’t believe it, and he knew she’d never do something like that without good reason.

He wanted to reassure her—more than anything, he just wanted to wrap her up and shield her from all the awfulness, to keep her safe forevermore. He slipped under the covers, gingerly bringing her back into him. They found a comfortable position, snuggling together like their bodies had spent years like this, rather than mere days. She stayed thoroughly wrapped around him, as if she feared that he might slip away in the night.

“I’m still here,” he repeated softly in the darkness. She shifted against him, pressing a kiss into his chest. “I love you and I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” Her voice was heavy, filling the air between them.

“Promise.” He sealed it with a kiss, on her forehead.

In a sudden rush, the entirety of the past forty-eight hours caught up with Calanthe. She began to shake and silently cry, clutching him tighter. He held on, rocking her softly and bestowing kisses on the top of her head.

He held on, and he stayed. And he knew that he’d stay forever, if she let him. With a flutter of shock and delight, he realized that she just might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just seems like a good time to say thank you, as always, for all the comments/kudos/tumblr reblogs/etc. <3


	17. The Prophecy Fulfilled

The next two weeks passed quite pleasantly, Eist thought. Despite the seemingly-miraculous recovery of his wound, Calanthe had insisted on a few extra days of poultices and teas. He’d simply smiled and went along with it.

Truth be told, it was nice. Being fussed over. Being cared for. Being loved.

 _Loved_. He was loved, by her. And oh, how she loved. He thought he’d entered some new realm, when she’d finally realized that their relationship was entirely a thing of choice, not charm—but oh, he had not known how much depth was still left unsounded within the woman.

She poured herself into him, it seemed. Flooding him completely with adoration and affection and passion. Until the night of their confessions of love, he’d had no clue that she’d still been holding back, in some way. Now he knew, with startling clarity and certainty, that Calanthe still had so much left to give. The love of a thousand suns, indeed.

She still teased him, still was her usual intractable self on the pettiest of matters, still snored in her sleep and was still thoroughly incapable of keeping her mouth shut when it would have benefitted them both (a few near-altercations with some of the locals had been saved by Eist’s soothing charms, but only barely). But now she also just…smiled at him, sometimes. As if she couldn’t quite believe he existed, here, with her. And when they made love (yes, that was what they did now, he couldn’t deny it, even if he’d wanted to), she seemed to stare straight into his soul, open and adoring in a way that made his breath catch and his heart forget to beat every single time. And now her hands were like magnets, constantly ruffling through his hair or simply resting atop his shoulder or on his waist as they discussed maps or planned the next hunt. He wasn’t sure that he could remember a time they actually sat in two separate chairs over the past two weeks—she either sat in his lap or simply stood next to him, rubbing his shoulders affectionately or trilling her fingers up the nape of his neck to play with his hair.

She wrote love letters, with those fingertips. Across his skin in the darkness, sealed with heavy, adoring kisses. Over the lines of his shoulders in the daylight, punctuated by soft smiles and little huffs of amused adoration or rolls of her eyes when he made an awful joke.

Loved. He was loved. He felt it, every moment of the day and night. And oh, how he loved her in return.

He’d given up trying to avoid his father’s legacy. Given up trying not to drown in it all, not to be cursed by the weight of all the emotions she evoked in him. He wrote replies to all her love letters with his own hands. He pulled her into him constantly—his arms, his lap, his kisses, always feeling a measure of delight for the way she gladly fell into them. He traced whorls and destinationless paths along the sides of her hips or the softness of her stomach as they quietly spoke, let his lips chart the length of her neck as often as possible, tucking each and every little sigh of happiness she gave into his memory, pulling them into longer and louder sounds when they were finally back in their bed.

One would think they were the very first to discover love, he thought warmly. The way they constantly practiced it, seeking it out in the mundanest of moments. It was a world that only they’d created, and they expanded it constantly.

He glanced over at her, still asleep in the grey morning light. The bruise on her spine was almost gone, still a yellowish tinge but far less noticeable. The scratches and cuts were healed completely, thanks to all her tricks and herbs and ointments, and the bruise on her side was growing smaller. He’d helped her apply the salves and brew various healing teas, listening in quiet wonder as she’d explained the properties of this herb or that root. He’d become rather adept at certain new tricks now, thanks to her. When her courses had come, she’d tried to put distance between them, assuming he wouldn’t want to be bothered with such things—but he’d actually been delighted at the chance to fuss over her in turn, after all the ways she’d nursed him back to health. He’d learned how to make warming poultices to lay over her abdomen, easing the pangs, exactly how to massage her lower back to help as well, exactly how she liked her willowbark tea (far more sugar than he’d expected, to the point that it seemed more like a syrup than a tea, but it was…endearing, he thought). He’d simply held her as she dozed off in a mid-afternoon nap, finally out of pain and exhausted from it. He’d held her, feeling the expanding heat of her body against his, the almost-perceptible humming of contentment radiating off her in waves.

She was loved. She knew it, she felt it. Because of him—a source of unending pride on his part, he could easily admit. She was happy, overflowing with quiet joy and contentment, and he was responsible. For all the good he’d done, slaying monsters, this still felt like his greatest achievement.

The object of his affection, the subject of his current adoring thoughts, shifted slightly, groaning softly as she tumbled into waking. She was lying on her stomach, face turned away from him—yet her right hand flopped out, fumbling to find him in the bed. She gave another noise when she found him, this one a small hum of contentment. His heart flooded with love anew. He leaned in, gently placing a kiss on her bare shoulder.

She hummed again. Wriggled a little closer, silently encouraging him. Her skin was sleepy-warm, almost too hot, as it always was when she first awoke in the mornings. He placed a hand on the small of her back, pushing a slight soothing coolness into her. She let out a happy sigh, lifting her hips just enough to signal her desire for more. He gladly fulfilled the unspoken request, lightly stroking down her spine in a slow, comforting cadence.

“Bring that magical hand of yours a little lower,” she instructed, voice still gravelly with sleep. He glanced down, watching her legs shift wider under the coverlet, the invitation unmistakable. He chuckled softly at her predictable response, shifting his entire body closer to hers and obeying, taking a moment to relish the swell of her ass beneath his palm.

She made a relieved, happy sound when he finally reached exactly where she wanted him. With a low, heavy hum, she declared, “Oh, I love you.”

“Me, or my magical hand?” He teased, punctuating the question with his finger, slipping through already-slick folds to find her clit.

She arched a bit at the touch. “I can love both. No need to dichotomize.”

“Dichotomize? Is that even actually a word, or did you make it up?”

“All words were made up, at some point.”

“Bit early for philosophy,” he returned, kissing her shoulder again. Finally she turned her head, her dark eyes twinkling.

“Not too early for more physical pursuits, though?” She already knew the answer.

Still, he replied, “Never.”

Her grin widened. She looked absolutely giddy—as if she didn’t know that he’d always say yes, as if he wasn’t already giving her what she wanted, with each stroke of his hand. He couldn’t help but grin like a fool, completely charmed by her as always.

Then he saw the first hint—the flash of something mischievous in her eyes.

“Then come pursue them,” she breathed, taking a beat to fully level her gaze. Before he could truly comprehend her words, she was slipping out of his grasp, rolling to the other side of the bed to sit up, bright-eyed and a little breathless. She'd washed her hair the night before, which meant it was wild and unbraided, making her look even more delightfully untamed.

He moved to follow, but she countered, slipping off the mattress completely. He glanced outside, trying to gauge the time. They had a little while, before Belo came to open up the shop downstairs. They could still play, just a little while longer, before things had to go quieter and softer, restrained to simple touches and small smiles.

She took another slow step backwards, folding her arms behind her. She wanted to play so desperately, and he felt his own sense of joyful exuberance growing at the thought of simply having a moment like this, with her. He moved more quickly this time, but she didn’t really try to avoid his hands, either. He had her pressed against the wall, kissing her properly for the first time all morning. She melted further into him, humming in warm approval, her hands diving into his hair, slipping down to appreciatively trill through the stubble along his jaw—he could feel the sheer delight radiating out of her, bubbly and heady.

Then, long before he was satisfied, she was slipping away again, offering a dancing smile over her shoulder and one last push of her charm as she disappeared into the main room.

 _Pursue_. The command hung in the air, playful and delighted as ever. He gladly obeyed.

* * *

Over the past two weeks, Calanthe had found ways to ease the burden on the Nyt family—after all, they hadn’t expected to feed two extra mouths for an extra month. The other villagers were rather helpful, too. Fresh-baked bread every few days from the widowed baker and her never-married brother, both of whom seemed to eye Eist with a certain level of appreciation (and maybe Calanthe perversely encouraged it, because she liked watching him squirm under the attentions, and because she liked knowing that as soon as they left, he was still hers, all hers, to enjoy thoroughly and completely). Some vegetables from a local farmer, a few apples and a never-ending supply of beer from Belo Gethe. But still, the majority of their meals came from Zagradd’s table, and Calanthe tried to bring as much to it as she could.

Eist, unsurprisingly, was a rather good fisherman, and sometimes went out to catch a few for dinner. Calanthe had far less patience and set traps instead for various animals. Today, she had two rather nice rabbits and some roots and tubers she’d found in a meadow that would make for a decent stew. Not that she cared what Hene actually did with the offerings—it was more about showing that they appreciated her family’s efforts and that they were trying to be as little of a burden as possible.

And maybe, it was tinged with a bit of guilt. They had no clue yet just how Calanthe had changed their family’s fortunes, that day in the meadow, two weeks ago.

She slowed her horse to a walk as she entered the village, suddenly feeling a measure of unease.

The air didn’t feel right. After years of being overly-cautious, being hunter and hunted in equal measure, she had learned to pick up on the slight shifts in the wind, the emotions slipping through the air around her. The irony of having such a gift, from her father, which was further honed and crafted, due to her father, was not lost on her. She dismounted, looking around slowly as she gently led her horse farther down the street, towards the Nyt house.

The village didn’t have a square, but there was a well at one point along the main road that served as an epicenter of sorts. People were there, milling around, their dismay and agitation rippling against her skin as she approached, her stomach tightening with a knowing sense of dread.

At the center, Edya. Red faced, tears streaking down her cheeks.

Fuck. Stelen had been found, then.

Two weeks—a lot could happen in two weeks. He’d be hardly recognizable, if the wild animals had done their job. And his cause of death would probably be harder to pin down—much less the person responsible.

And yet, when Edya’s gaze settled on her, Calanthe instinctively knew that luck would not be on her side.

Of course it wouldn’t. She was the outsider. Even if she hadn’t been the one to kill him, she would have been the first one under suspicion. So much easier to throw the blame outside the circle of people you trusted, rather than genuinely consider the character of those you’ve known all your life. Besides, as usual, Calanthe had not exactly endeared the local populace to her.

“You!” Edya spat, throwing an accusing finger in her direction. “You did this!”

Calanthe blinked, feigned confusion. “Did…what?”

Edya practically rattled with rage and heartache. “Herre Gethe found Stelen’s body this morning—someone murdered him, like an absolute _animal_ —”

“Edya.” Hene stepped up swiftly, reaching for her daughter. She cast an apologetic glance towards Calanthe. “She’s just distraught, Lioness. We don’t even know yet—”

“I know!” Edya stamped, her voice pitching in desperation. “Stelen said he would send word, when he arrived in Lan Exeter—and he didn’t. He never made it back. Belo said he’s been dead for days now—Stelen told me about the fight he had with you, just before he was supposed to leave. Told me how you threatened him—”

“I _defended_ myself against his threats,” Calanthe snapped back. “I merely informed him of exactly what would happen if he ever tried to accost me again—”

“And when he did confront you again, you _murdered_ him,” Edya declared. 

Calanthe blinked hard. She should deny it. Part of her didn’t want to, though. Still, she would—or she would have, if Edya hadn’t continued her tirade.

“Stelen told me that you were dangerous. That you would probably kill more people, just to make us think there was a second werewolf, so you could make more money off of us. He went to confront you about it, and you killed him to keep him quiet.” She whirled back to her mother, declaring, “This is what happens when you bring in monsters to hunt monsters—they’re _still_ monsters—”

“Edya,” Hene snapped again. Still, when she looked back at Calanthe, she didn’t look apologetic. She looked…wary.

So did everyone else, Calanthe noted, glancing around the crowd. It had only begun to grow, since Edya began screaming.

“You came back with blood on your clothes.” Edya stepped forward again (but not too far forward, Calanthe noted—she was still smart enough to fear her). “You came back covered in blood. And you asked me about Stelen. Except there was something interesting, something I noticed but didn’t really think about until today. When you asked me if I really wanted to marry him—you said _did you_ , instead of _do you._ Because you already knew. You already knew that he was dead.”

Now everyone stopped and shifted, looking at Calanthe as if seeing her for the first time.

Definitely time to leave.

A section of the crowd began jostle. Belo Gethe pushed his way through, wide-eyed and a little breathless. He furrowed his brow and marched straight to her. He grabbed her upper arm and hauled her forward.

“Zagradd has called for me to bring the Lioness before him. We will settle this matter at once.”

There was a murmur of approval. Calanthe took a beat to consider fighting her way out.

Eist. She didn’t know where he was, if they already had him. Until she knew that he was safe, she couldn’t lose her cool.

So she clutched her horse’s reins a little tighter and followed along, letting Belo Gethe drag her up the street towards the Nyt house. Edya kept yelling to anyone who would listen, but a few curious onlookers followed along behind.

Belo dipped his head, keeping his voice quick and hushed. “Lioness, when I tell you to, you must hit me—and make it a good one. Then get on your horse and head straight north, follow the path ahead as far up the mountain as you can. The Hound is already there, waiting for you.”

“How—”

“He can tell you the rest. We haven’t the time.” He glanced over, taking a full beat to meet her gaze.

“I know,” he said simply. “What the boy was really like. If I had been alone when I found him, I would have buried his bones and let it lie. Thank you for what you did here, Lioness. You rid us of more than one monster. I believe it.”

Her throat felt tight and her eyes began to burn.

“Now." He gave a small, curt nod. “Show me how good your right hook is.”

She took a shaky breath. Clenched her jaw, tightened her fist, and swung.

Belo didn’t have to truly feign his stumble backwards. He’d have a nice shiner and a tale to tell, she thought, swinging herself back into the saddle and urging her horse forward.

It took every ounce of self control not to look back, to make sure he was alright.

* * *

Eist’s horse began to nicker and shift uneasily—a beat later, he heard hoofbeats thundering up the narrow path, and he turned to see Calanthe approaching, her face lined with absolute fear.

“Oh,” she called out—and even at the distance, even with the thunder of her horse barreling closer and her body being jostled along with it, he could hear the way her voice caught with emotion. “Oh, thank the gods, you’re alright.”

“I’ll be better still if we get the fuck out of here.” He clicked to his own horse, urging it to join Calanthe’s at a rather quick trot.

“Which way?” She asked, looking around. The path was slowly fading into an open meadow.

“East, across the meadow. Then we’re to follow the ridge back down. Keeping going southwest, til we hit Hengfors.” Eist repeated the instructions Belo had given him. Belo had also given him a map, but now wasn’t the time to look at such things. “The faster, the better.”

She nodded. Still, she took a beat to reach out to him, squeezing his forearm before urging her horse into an all-out gallop. His horse bolted along after her, and he let relief wash over him, warring with the adrenaline still pounding through his veins.

There would be a hunting party, no doubt. The villagers wouldn’t know that Belo had helped them, and—gods forgive him for thinking such a thing—hopefully their better trackers had been lost in the werewolf attack earlier in the year. He could see the clumps of grass and dirt that Calanthe’s mount was kicking up as it ran, and he knew they’d be easy to follow this far. But once they reached the other side, once they were sheltered by trees and boulders, they could be more cautious, cover their tracks as best as possible.

Calanthe seemed to have the same idea—she reined her horse back into a trot, once they reached the edge of the meadow, looking around to best figure out the next move. She turned her horse to a section with a heavier carpet of pine needles upon the ground, and he followed along.

Once they slowed to a walk and the path was wide enough for them to ride side by side, she looked over at him, eyes still wide.

“What happened?”

He blinked, a little surprised at the question. She noted his confusion, gave a slight shake of her head. “I mean—I know, they found Stelen. Edya knew it was me, and was…quite vocal about it. But…how did Belo get you out?”

“He figured out what had happened, almost as soon as he found the body, apparently,” Eist shrugged. “He came to me, told me that I should be prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. He got my horse ready while I packed our things. Then he gave me a map, showed me a path around the back of the village, and told me that he’d send you along as soon as you came back.”

Calanthe glanced at the back of his saddle, noticing for the first time that he had her saddle bags and bedroll as well.

Eist decided not to mention hearing Edya’s reaction as he’d quietly ridden away—the yelling that had carried over the tops of the buildings, the absolute anger and aching in her tone as she’d screeched: _It was that monster, that monster did this!_

It had been both a relief and a source of dread, knowing that the final piece of the prophecy had clicked into place. _Driven from the village and called a monster by the very ones you try to save._

They had survived. All of Vanielle’s words had come to pass, and they were still here, still alive. It had been destined, and now it had been fulfilled. The fact that it ended with them still together, still like this, made him feel another wash of delight. It meant _they_ had been destined, in some small way.

“What about you?” He asked quietly.

Calanthe ducked her head. “By the time I got back, Edya was already stirring up a crowd. She began accusing me—rightfully, I suppose. Then Belo stepped in, said he was taking me to Zagradd. He told me to punch him and escape, that you were waiting for me.”

She looked over at him, her eyes welling with emotion.

“I think we owe that man our lives.”

He slowly nodded in agreement. It was a debt they’d never be able to repay. Gingerly, he cleared his throat. “Calanthe…. I have never doubted that you did what was necessary to protect yourself, and I’ve never doubted that you made the right call, given the circumstances. But Belo told me things. About Stelen. About…what sort of person he was. How sometimes, when he had words with people, they’d meet unfortunate accidents afterwards. Often fatal ones. No one could ever prove anything, and perhaps Belo was the only one who’d begun to put two and two together—but even if other people suspected, Stelen’s father was a powerful man, and you know how protected those types are. I don’t think you were the first person he hurt, and if you hadn’t fought back and ended it, it would have been much worse—and if you hadn’t ended him, you wouldn’t have been the last person he hurt. I need you to know that you absolutely did the right thing, even if it doesn’t feel that way right now.”

She blinked back tears, turning her attention back the trail ahead of them. Still, she reached out, lightly patting his hand.

Still writing love letters, he thought softly. Still saying _thank you, I love you, please stay._

He placed his hand over hers, just before she pulled it away. Held it for a beat, giving a light squeeze. _You have no need to thank me, I love you, always._

She slowly withdrew. With a feigned sense of nonchalance, she noted, “So, I hear Thanedd Island’s quite lovely this time of year. Seems like the perfect place to catch up for a few days, don’t you think?”

He smiled softly. “One track mind, woman.”

She looked back over at him with a wolfish grin. “Truly. My only thought when I saw the mob forming was: Oh, I do hope Eist is alright—I still haven’t fucked him every which way round _quite_ yet.”

He laughed at that, feeling another measure of delight at the way her smile deepened in response, obviously pleased at making him laugh in a moment like this.

“Must be fate,” he decreed somberly, holding out his hands to draw attention to the fact that he was alright, just as she’d hoped. “I’m destined to be fucked every which way round by you.”

She chuckled at that. Then she drawled, “Well, since the gods have spoken, what choice do we have?”

“I think we can choose the order in which we try every way. Which I must admit, I’ve become quite forgetful of all we’ve done so far—perhaps we should start again, and keep a running list—”

She reached over to spat his chest. “Lecherous thing. We’re literally running for our lives.”

“ _Running for our lives_ implies that we might actually have reason to fear. Personally, I think the two of us could take on any army.”

She smiled over at him again, her expression syrupy-sweet.

“Let’s not put that one to the test,” she suggested gently. He merely nodded in agreement.

After a beat, he spoke up again. “So…Thanedd Island, eh?”

She hummed in affirmation.

“What will we do there?”

She gave him a burning glance, the answer screamingly clear. Then, with a grin and pleased lift of her chin, she urged her horse back into a trot.

He goaded his horse on as well, raising his voice to be heard over the clip of hooves. “How many days til we reach Thanedd again?”

* * *

Within two days, they reached Hengfors, the first large city along the way. They decided to pass the night at an inn, just on the southern side of town. The night itself was uneventful, aside from the fact that they got to sleep in a bed together again, rather than taking turns keeping watch—Eist hadn’t realized just how accustomed he’d become to having her body beside his while sleeping, until their first night out of Velhad, when he’d had to sleep while she kept watch. He was rather certain Calanthe felt the same—she gave a happy little sound when she snuggled up to him, holding him tighter for just a beat more, as if relishing the feeling of their bodies lying together again.

He wondered what would happen, after Thanedd Island. He knew what he wanted, what he was pretty sure Calanthe wanted, too—but _how_ to make it happen, how to turn it from pleasant dream to even pleasanter reality, he didn’t quite know.

Vanielle had promised an end of self, in some way. Calanthe had mentioned getting ready to retire, on the journey up to Velhad. Maybe that was it, he thought. Maybe he’d retire, too, and they’d spend the rest of their lives finding quieter ways to live, with each other.

Calanthe kissed his neck, a final peck goodnight, and wriggled in his arms, turning so that her back was against his front. He felt another wave of happiness at the small gesture, at the familiarity of it all. Yes, he wouldn’t mind this, every night for the rest of his life.

But it was still so new, he had to remind himself. As worn-in and right as it felt, there was still so much left to discover, so many things to navigate between them. They loved each other, to the point of drowning in it—they had to learn how to float, how to survive it together.

His parents had been that way, once upon a time. His heart fluttered anxiously at the thought. His father had never really been open about his life before the children, but Eist had learned from eavesdropping on the village women that his mother had arrived a year or two before Bran’s birth. So they’d been together for fifteen, sixteen years before she decided to leave.

Fifteen years. What a long time to love someone, only to stop. He tried to imagine fifteen years with Calanthe. Tried to imagine ever reaching a point where he would willfully abandon her, without a backward glance.

No. He wasn’t his mother, or his father—and neither was Calanthe. They were their own people, with their own history, their own choices.

Thanedd first, he reminded himself. And the rest of their lives…well, that would come after. For now, they were here, and that was what mattered.

He drifted into slumber, nose against the nape of her neck, arm around her waist, hand covered by her hand. Somehow, he thought, just before tumbling into darkness, the rest of their lives still wouldn’t be enough of this.

The next morning, they broke fast at the inn as well. Calanthe, as usual, had her excellent table manners on display—at first, Eist assumed that was what drew the attention of the stranger, who kept glancing towards their table.

But the man kept looking back. Finally, he rose to his feet and came over. Calanthe and Eist both shifted slightly, turning to better face the newcomer.

“Weren’t you in here, a month ago?” The stranger asked, taking a beat to glance at each of them. “With the man from Velhad?”

Calanthe merely blinked. Eist followed her lead—it was probably best not to comment on Velhad at all, anymore.

“No, no, you were.” The man softly wagged his finger, his certainty growing. “I know it was you, I definitely recognize…”

He drifted off slightly, glancing at Calanthe again.

Ah, Eist thought. Yes, she was rather unforgettable, he thought. Particularly this far north, where most features were lighter and paler. Though—and Eist could admit slight bias—she was breathtakingly noteworthy, no matter where in the world she happened to be.

“The man was looking for someone to hunt monsters.” The stranger shifted the conversation slightly, glancing back at Eist. “And then he came back through, with you two.”

There was a question, hidden in the statement, but Eist didn’t answer it.

“So, what are you?” He asked, not meaning to be as rude as he sounded. He just seemed genuinely curious.

“Monster hunters,” Calanthe answered flatly. She was quickly tiring of the man’s presence.

“Well, yeah, of course. I just meant—”

“I know exactly what you meant,” she returned easily, turning her attention back to her plate. A wise man would understand that the conversation was finished.

This was apparently not a wise man. “So, what? You’re some kind of harpy, then?”

She huffed at that, at the obvious accusation in his tone.

Eist sighed. It was evident that the man wouldn’t be content until he had answers—and the sooner he was satisfied, the sooner they could finish their breakfast and leave.

“A siren and a dragon,” he informed the stranger.

The man looked back at Calanthe. “Ah, a siren. I should have known.”

Eist noted the way the tips of her ears went red and her jaw clenched. Then she looked up at stranger slowly, eyes completely devoid of any emotion whatsoever. “I’m the dragon.”

He blinked at that, glancing over at Eist in mild surprise. Eist merely lifted his brows, silently confirming.

Calanthe added, “So…whatever it is that you thought you _knew_ , you were mistaken. Now if you don’t mind—or even if you do, I don’t give a flying fuck—we’d like to finish our breakfast in peace.”

She was still watching him with a completely neutral expression, looking utterly exhausted by this man’s bullshit and more than done with his company.

Eist watched the man for a beat, awaiting his reaction.

“She always this inhospitable?” The stranger jerked a thumb in Calanthe’s direction.

“Most of the time,” Eist conceded easily. “But only to people who are rude enough to approach without proper introduction or good reason, aside from apparently disturbing our peace.”

He was still keeping the man’s gaze, but he could feel the flicker of Calanthe’s eyes on his face. The light push of her charm, silently thanking him.

It disturbed Eist’s efforts to soothe the man with his own charms—as well as filtering over anyone nearby, which included their unwelcome guest. The stranger blinked, suddenly aware of the magic at work.

“You filthy freak.” He glared at Eist. “You just tried to seduce me.”

“Trust me, you are _far_ from his type,” Calanthe drawled.

“No, I felt it—I felt the sensation, the feeling—”

“Oh, tell me, what did you feel?” Calanthe suddenly feigned interest, leaning in with a purr. “Some…call of attraction to those beautiful blue eyes—”

“Cal,” Eist warned. She really wasn’t helping the situation.

The innkeep appeared with a tight smile, “Everything alright over here?”

“Oh, everything’s becoming _quite_ delightful,” Calanthe assured him smoothly. Eist kicked her foot under the table. For once, she heeded the warning and changed her tune. “We were just leaving, actually.”

Wise decision, Eist thought, rising to his feet. Calanthe did as well, pulling out a few coins and tossing them onto the table.

“Fucking abomination,” the stranger hissed, as they turned to leave.

Eist turned back around, opening his mouth to reply, but Calanthe spoke first—and as usual, she chose to speak with her fist.

She got in two rapid punches to the guy’s face before anyone else could even blink. Eist quickly scooped his arm around her waist, hauling her away as she tried for one last swing, then attempted a kick—her foot barely made contact with the man’s jaw, certainly not enough to even leave a bruise, but she still gave a huff of triumph at it, all the same.

“See?!” The stranger bellowed, red-faced and clutching his now-bleeding nose. The entire inn was watching in wide-eyed fascination, murmuring amongst themselves. “Animals, absolute fucking animals!”

Calanthe was still leaning as far out of Eist’s grasp as possible. She actually, physically _hissed_ , like a damn cat. Eist was torn between wanting to shake her and wanting to simply burst into laughter at her antics.

Then, realizing she had a very short amount of time for any further retaliation, she hawked and spit right in the man’s face.

Eist was actually impressed. By now, there was nearly ten feet between them and her target.

“Don’t you ever slink back in here again!” The innkeep bellowed, practically foaming at the mouth.

Calanthe's entire body went so hot that Eist nearly dropped her, his nerves instinctively trying to save himself from being seared.

“A dragon does _not_ slink!” She bellowed back. She’d stopped fighting against Eist's hold and now simply used it for support, allowing herself to sink against his arm and pull all of her physical strength into her lungs. “And when I return, it shall be in fire and flame and you will know the measure of your folly, you _pathetic_ little man—I will raze this place to ash and bone!”

She was growling and venomous, shaking with rage. Eist feared holding her, feared releasing her just as much. She’d meant every ounce of every word.

It wouldn’t be the first time she made good on such a promise.

Fighting the pain of her near-burning skin against his own, he gritted his teeth and dragged her fully out of the inn.

She stopped struggling and let him. The burning lessened, and once they were outside, she wriggled out of his grasp like a cat, turning to look up with a worried expression.

“Did I hurt you?” She asked, almost fearful of the answer.

“No,” he lied. His skin felt raw like a burn from the sun, not the bite of an actual fire. A mild touch of flames.

She took a beat to study him, as if not truly believing him. Still, she merely nodded, running her hands down the front of her doublet and tugging the hem, pulling it back into proper place. Her cheeks were still flushed with heated anger—she'd still be almost searing to the touch, he knew.

She usually only got this heated during sex, he realized. Even in her usual tavern brawls (which happened a bit frequently, truth be told), she didn’t get this overworked.

The only difference was that this time, the fight had started over Eist, he realized. He felt a flutter of surprise at the thought. She only got this heated over _him._

“We should go,” Calanthe suggested, turning a wary eye back to the tavern. “Men like that often get…vindictive.”

His heart ached at the history of her statement, the knowing certainty of her tone and the haunted worry in her big brown eyes.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded in agreement. “The faster, the better, I think.”

She hummed, turning on her heel towards the stable. He cast one last glance towards the inn before hurrying along behind.

They didn’t truly speak again until they were on the road outside Hengfors, heading farther south.

“You know,” Calanthe drawled, forcing a nonchalance into her tone that she didn’t quite feel. “You’d think I would have learned my lesson by now.”

Eist looked over in silent askance. She clarified, “About making the situation worse, as usual.”

“It wasn’t entirely your fault,” he pointed out gently.

“No,” she conceded easily, looking down at the reins in her hand. “And I certainly didn’t start the whole interaction. But that doesn’t really matter. I'm still a harbinger. I still…bring things into being, even without meaning to.”

He simply stared at her, unsure of what to say, how to cure the odd little expression on her features, how to ease the unreadable emotions swirling through her eyes.

Quietly, she added, “I’m sorry, about using the charm. Setting him off. I…I didn’t think.”

“I was using mine, too,” Eist pointed out. “It wasn’t just yours at play.”

She frowned over at him. “Were you?”

“Of course,” he returned. “Didn’t you feel it?”

Her confused expression answered his question. “I guess I was too caught up in wishing the idiot on fire.”

He laughed at that.

“Or maybe I've just built up an immunity, having it used upon me, day after day—”

“I haven’t tried to charm you _once_ over the past three weeks—”

She harrumphed disbelievingly at that.

“I haven’t _needed_ to,” he added, rather pointedly. “Nor have I _ever_ needed to, when it came to bringing you back to my bed.”

“Careful how you tread, mighty hunter. You’re still riding next to a dragon.”

“Haven’t just been riding _next_ to—”

She reached out to smack him on the arm.

“Deny it,” he challenged. “Deny that every interaction between us for the past three weeks has been exactly what you wanted—”

“Oh I can recall several instances in which _your_ wants were most certainly the ones being fulfilled—”

“And you enjoyed every second of aiding me in that fulfillment.”

She ducked her head, tamping down a smile. She actually looked adorable, he thought.

“Fine,” she admitted softly. “I will concede that no charm was necessary. But nothing more.”

“I expected nothing less,” he informed her, only half-joking. After a beat, he casually added, “Doesn’t make the rest any less true. Sharing rooms with you was like living with a succubus. I'm surprised I escaped with my life.”

“You haven’t actually escaped yet,” she pointed out, shooting him a grin that was all-teeth. “We’ll see how that statement holds after Thanedd.”

He merely grinned deeper at the thought. “Well, there are worse ways to fight for one’s life, I suppose. Just remember, dear Lioness: I have no issue matching you stroke for stroke.”

She laughed softly at the obvious innuendo, the double entendre of his words.

“Oh,” she shook her head, still grinning. “I certainly remember.”

She glanced over at him again, shining-eyed and quietly joyful.

 _There_ , he thought with a wave of satisfaction. _She’s happy and light again, just as she’s always meant to be._

He couldn’t help but feign wide-eyed innocent concern as he added, “But…you will let me know, won't you? If you ever need a reminder?”

Her smile turned lazy and adoring. She reached over, pulling his reins to halt his horse along with her own. Then she grabbed the front of his doublet and pulled him closer to her as she stood up in her stirrups, leaning in to kiss him.

“That’ll do for now,” she assured him warmly. “But later on, I’m sure I’ll become quite forgetful.”

* * *

Eist had lied to her. Once they stopped to make camp, it didn’t take long for Calanthe to convince him to remove his shirt—and when he did, she saw the faint redness on his skin, like a sunburn on his chest and the parts of his arms where he'd held her back, during the altercation at the inn.

“I did burn you,” she whispered in dismay, fingertips lightly ghosting over the outline. She'd done this. To him. Her anger and her pride had been too great, so overwhelming that the one person trying to help her had been hurt.

“Only a little,” he said softly.

Her throat tightened with tears. The terrifying feeling from the night of Eist’s recovery—the night she confessed to killing Stelen—surged through her again like a tidal wave.

A harbinger in all things. She brought destruction even in the smallest forms. Not even Eist was safe from her, despite all the love between them, despite her devotion and affection—her nature, her anger and her chaos and her thirst for havoc would always be stronger, always the victor on a soon-to-be-bloodied field.

She'd promised him that she would try to be better, try to be good. This was as much as she’d been able—and it still wasn’t good enough, it still left him hurting, still put him in danger, in some way.

 _Wicked child, sired by a cruel father on a prideful mother—there is little you can do but fall to the folly of your creation._ Her nursemaid’s voice again, quiet and certain. For the first time in a very long time, it actually stung. Perhaps because for the first time in a very long time, she realized that behind all the venom and bile, there was absolute truth.

“Hey.” His voice was gentle, lined with compassion as his hand lightly clasped hers, giving a slight squeeze to bring her out of her thoughts. “It’s alright, Cal. I'm fine. I would have told you if it had actually hurt me.”

She blinked at that in mild shock. “No, you wouldn’t have.”

And that was utter truth—and also part of the problem, she knew. Because he would never admit when she'd hurt him, he would always mitigate the damage and keep loving her through it.

“Alright, fine, no I wouldn’t,” Eist admitted easily, only furthering her dread. “But either way, it didn’t hurt.”

She took a beat to look at him, gauging the veracity of his statement. He simply smiled back at her, as calm and adoring as ever.

Calanthe have never expected to be truly loved. She’d expected even less for such love to be more of an issue than her own reasons for not being worthy of the love in the first place.

Eist could see the doubt clouding her eyes, and it only made him love her more. She cared, with a ferocity just as overwhelming as her anger could be. He reached up, stroked the side of her face with his fingertips, smiled at how she shifted into the touch, ever so slightly.

“Still.” She closed her eyes, expression contorting into sorrow. “I won’t…blame you, you know, when the day comes and you realize that it’s an awful way to live your life, constantly being dragged into chaos.”

Shock rippled through his veins. They hadn’t actually talked about what would happen next—after the hunt, after Thanedd Island, after they returned to Verden and the rest of their lives began. But obviously Calanthe had made the same quiet assumptions that he had, over the past two weeks: whatever happened, they’d still be together, in some way.

“I like chaos,” he said quietly. “If I had ever desired peace and calm, I wouldn’t have spent my life hunting monsters.”

She hummed at that. Still, she didn’t look at him.

“There may come a day when you do…desire peace and calm.” She pushed back lightly. “And I know…I know who and what I am. I can’t promise to do better or be better. It’s not in my nature to be…anything but this.”

His heart ached at the quiet certainty of her tone, the condemnation and regret running just beneath the surface.

He thought of the night she told him about Stelen. The heartbroken desperation as she’d looked at him in the mirror's reflection, face still scratched and bruised, eyes wide with fear and love. _I promise, please, I will try to be good._

But now, she’d given up the idea that she could even _try_ to be good.

His heart flashed hot with anger. He took a breath to steady himself, placing his hands on her hips—she instantly looked back to him, and the fear and self-loathing in those deep dark eyes made him all the more determined.

He held her gaze, his tone low and serious. “I need you to focus solely on my words right now. Commit them to memory. I love you. I love you for your chaos, not in spite of it. And maybe that makes me insane, or at least a bit biased, but it doesn’t make my words any less true: Calanthe, I don’t know who ever convinced you that you aren’t already good, that your nature is entirely something ugly and awful—but they fucking lied to you.”

She blinked rapidly at that, and his heart ached anew at the thought that this might be the first time anyone actually refuted whatever the voices in her head screamed about her and her nature.

He gave her hips a light squeeze. “Yes, you are absolute chaos—but that isn’t always a bad thing. Joy can be chaotic. And so can laughter. And passion.”

He thought of her, the morning before they were forced out of Velhad. Light and playful, skittering out of his grasp to race through the rooms they shared. Smiling in the early morning light, skin warm and glowing. Chaos. She'd been chaos then, tumbling and spilling joy all around them. Just as she’d been chaos at the inn, kicking and bellowing to bring down the roof. The parts he loved most about her would not exist, without every single part of her—and so he loved every single part, without hesitation, without exception or regret.

“You are right—you can’t be anything but yourself, and you never have been anything but yourself.” He felt a little wry smile twinging the corner of his mouth at the absolute truth of that statement. But he became serious again as he tried to make sure she understood every ounce of his words. “And you are good. You deserve goodness.”

Calanthe felt the world stop. She blinked, her mind trying to process all the love that had just been poured over her. He was still watching her with those beautiful blue eyes, staring straight into her soul, so earnest and fervent in his belief that she could ever possibly be good.

Eist simply watched the shifts and flutters of her expression, watched as she tried to come to terms with what he’d said, with what he’d just offered. He waited, giving her the time she needed.

She blinked. A single tear slipped down her cheek. Instinctively, he brought his hand up to brush it away. She closed her eyes and turned in to the touch, so small and soft that he really had no choice but to fully pull her into his arms.

He felt so solid and safe around her, Calanthe thought, holding on tighter. She wanted to believe him, believe all the words he’d said.

 _You are good, you deserve goodness_. Eist was the greatest amount of good she could ever earn, she realized—and even if she didn’t quite agree that she was worthy of his love and affection, she’d certainly try to be, for the rest of her life, regardless of the declarations she’d just made to the contrary. He made her want to defy everything she knew, everything she’d believed about herself for most of her life. He made her want to prove him right.

She was shaking in his arms. Eist held her tighter. _It’s an awful way to live your life_ , she’d said. And he couldn’t imagine a falser statement. The moment she’d quietly acknowledged that she wanted the exact same thing he wanted—them, together, like this, always—his heart had tumbled completely over the cliff’s edge and into the deepest depths of the sea. He was forever lost, never to recover from this love. Never wanting to, either.

He dipped his head forward to whisper in her ear. “I love you, Calanthe. And I will gladly, happily, ecstatically spend my life drowning in every shade of your chaos, if only you let me.”

She made a small sound and held him tighter, shaking even more. He simply stoked his hand over the top of her head, gently swaying them as he let her process, let her decide the next step between them.

After a few beats, she shifted, still holding him as she tilted her face up to his.

“Then let me,” she said simply. “Let me drown you.”

He was supposed to be the siren between them. And yet he found himself leaning in to her kiss, willingly letting her drag him under the waves of emotion, letting her absolutely drown him in adoration and affection.

Calanthe was still shaking. She didn’t stop her trembling until long after, her body feeling far too small for all the feelings that rattled out of her disused heart and through her bones.

Eist loved her. She knew that, had known that fully for two weeks now. But now she understood the purity of his devotion, too—because he didn’t love her enough to overlook her flaws, no. He loved her even more than that—loved her enough to see her flaws, to know her weaknesses and shortcomings, and love them anyways, love her for having them, love her for her truest self. He didn’t seek to alter or control. He simply sought to love.

So she gave him chaos. It was, after all, all she was, and all she had.

And it was his, for as long as he’d have it.


	18. Run

**The Temerian Wilderness, Northern Temeria (Two Days’ Ride East of Thanedd Island)**.

Now that they’d all but outright agreed to forever, there seemed to be another shift between them, Calanthe noted. Particularly in Eist’s neediness. She smiled wryly at the thought—not that she was complaining in the least, mind you.

Over the past three days, they’d probably added at least a half-day of travel time, due to Eist’s constant needs to stop and show her just how much he loved her. It was near frenetic, this sudden burning energy he seemed to possess.

He didn’t sleep as much at night, either, Calanthe noted. The past two nights he'd tossed and turned in his sleep. Even now, when he should be asleep, he certainly wasn’t. He'd come over to where she sat, keeping watch, the intention in his touches far from vague or misinterpretable. When she'd pointed out that she needed to keep watch, he'd merely nuzzled between her legs and informed her that she was more than welcome to keep watching.

And even as she’d huffed and rolled her eyes at that, she'd still lifted her hips, had still let him slip her breeches further down as she leaned back to a more accessible angle, had let him take his fill, had let herself fall apart under the attentions of his tongue and lips.

A bit hard to keep watch, when her eyes were fluttering shut under the weight of sensation, or when she was constantly focused on watching him. He hummed again, pushing the sound into her along with his tongue. Her thighs tightened around his ears and her head fell back involuntarily.

Through a gap in the trees, she could see the moon, glowing brightly.

Maybe that was what caused his sleeplessness, she thought passively. The full moon was almost here, sometimes it turned people a bit restless.

The thought became heavier, settling low in her stomach and feeling at-odds with the other sensations currently in her hips. She thought of the last full moon and her hand instinctively went to Eist’s arm, already fully healed from the werewolf's bite.

No. She'd made sure that he hadn’t been infected. She'd used every ounce of her knowledge and willpower to heal him. He wasn’t infected, never had been.

Her grip tightened, more out of reflex than conscious thought. Eist apparently took it for encouragement and held her hips tighter, nuzzling back into her with a low growl of delight.

She couldn’t help but gasp at the sudden rush of heat through her hips, pushing her chin back up to the sky.

The moon seemed so large, suddenly. Large and overwhelming.

Terrifying. It was terrifying. The thought was punctuated by her body softly twittering into climax, fluttering and gasping as Eist continued pushing her further past the edge. Her hands fumbled blindly, clutching at his hair, his hands, his shoulders, whatever she could touch.

She couldn’t look away from the moon. She couldn’t shake the feeling of dread it created.

* * *

They were almost to Thanedd Island. Eist took a deep breath, enjoying the familiar and nostalgic scent of the sea. They’d left the main road to cut north, taking a lesser-used path along the coast. It was lovely—the view of the surf below, the grey sky and the call of the gulls, the biting scent of brine and the lulling crash and retreat of the waves echoing up to them as they rode along the cliffs.

Even Calanthe kept glancing to her right, down to the water below. Being farther north meant the summer heat was much more bearable, but he imagined that she was still too warm, as usual.

“We should go for a swim,” he called out, catching her attention. She shifted, turning in her saddle to look back at him.

“You think?” She seemed hopeful, but still hesitant.

“Why not?”

She grinned at that, unable to offer a rebuttal. The wind was blowing up the cliff’s edge, making her hair float and wisp around her face. She looked like chaos again, chaos simply waiting to erupt.

They found a path down to the beach, navigating the horses as deftly as possible. They finally reached the sand, abandoned their clothes, and headed for the water.

Calanthe made a light twittering sound, once the water lapped up to her ankles.

Eist was surprised. “Oh, surely _you_ can’t think it’s cold.”

“I don’t _think_ , Eist, I _know_ it is,” she retorted lightly, even as she gingerly continued wading farther in.

She had a point, perhaps. It was a bit chilly. But that was part of the allure. Eist got far enough in to dive under completely, relishing the shock to his system. He came up again, turning to look back at her, still only knee-deep.

She was smiling softly. “You look like a little seal.”

“I’m a _big_ seal, thank you very much.”

She laughed at that, rolling her eyes. She moved deeper in, finally lowering enough to push off and swim towards him. He gladly reached for her, his hands singing in delight at the feeling of her warm skin in the cold water.

She held him closer and kissed him, chaste but lingering, simply enjoying the feeling.

“I really am an idiot,” she admitted softly, still smiling in warm amusement. “Letting a siren tempt me out to sea.”

“Half-siren,” he reminded her gently. He placed a quick peck on the tip of her nose. “And the other half is very much a man who is _deeply_ invested in getting you back to that shore in perfect condition.”

She hummed at that. Wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled underneath his chin as her legs entwined with his. They were far enough out that their feet didn’t touch the seafloor, and they bobbed along peacefully for a while, letting the incoming tides roll and lift them in swells and small drops. He liked the weightless sensation, the easy shifting of their bodies pulling and pushing apart with the changing of the currents, the gentle movements they made to stay afloat, the calming lull of the water and the reassuring feeling of being wrapped up with her.

“Do you feel better here?” She asked in a low tone, sounding almost sleepy.

He considered the question. “I feel…at peace, I suppose. Things seem to slow.”

She hummed at that. Shifted slightly against his neck and kissed it softly. “I can feel it. I can feel the…ease, in your body. Even more so than when we were in the river, on the way to Velhad. You truly are in your element.”

Now it was his turn to hum, unsure of what else to do but agree. He did feel at-ease and he was in his element. He nuzzled into the curve of her neck as well, sampling the taste of her skin, now overlain with the salty bite of seawater. She made a small noise and shifted her bare chest further against his, immediately creating more sparks. He tightened his grip on her waist, pushing his hands appreciatively down the line of her hips.

She gave a low, amused growl. “Well, _now_ ease isn’t exactly what I’m feeling humming through your body…”

He grinned as well. “Just what happens when I feel yours.”

He could feel her smile against his skin as she kissed her way up to his jaw, nipping at his ear. They continued stroking their hands over each other, kissing and nipping playfully. Finally, she pulled him in for a hard, proper kiss before commanding, “Back to shore. Let’s get you feeling at-ease again.”

He hummed in agreement, gladly following her onto the sand once more.

* * *

They’d laid out their bedrolls on the sand, simply enjoying the feel of the sun on their skin afterwards, even if it was fleeting, disappearing and reappearing through gaps in the thick clouds. Calanthe truly understood the allure of the sea—even simply being near it for so long was calming, in ways she couldn’t describe.

It wasn’t her first time near or in the ocean. But this was certainly far different from any other experience she’d had. She felt absolutely languid, almost decadent, sleepy and satisfied all the way down to her bones.

It was Eist, she knew. The factor that changed the experience—that changed every experience, truth be told. He was lying face-down next to her, dozing off and occasionally reaching out to brush his fingertips over her hipbone or her stomach or her hand, just content to touch her in the smallest of ways.

She closed her eyes, turned her face back to the sky, and simply breathed.

She wanted this, always. This feeling of such warm safety and security. Her hand stirred, reaching out to blindly bump against his. He responded, shifting and curling so that their fingers were intertwined. Her chest tightened with another burble of warm happiness.

They’d be on Thanedd soon. They’d have the chance to truly expand and grow into even more. She still had so much she had to tell him, so much she had to explain. But he would understand, she knew. He would love her, through it all. He’d proven that, emotionally (and yes a bit physically, too), time and again. She just had to find the right time, the right way to let him see all of it.

She’d seen him in his element. As a dragon, she didn’t really have such a thing. Unless of course perhaps someone dropped her in a cave filled gold, she thought wryly.

But like all dragons, she did have her own little horde. Not exactly gold, but things just as precious. Things she’d die to defend and protect.

After Thanedd, she promised herself. She’d take him to see her in her element, too. She’d bring him to her own little nest, make him a part of it, in a way. If that was what he wanted.

She lightly placed her hand over her stomach at the last thought. He’d sworn to love her chaos, to love all of her—but there were things she brought along with her, things that were too much for anyone to bear, things that she couldn’t ask anyone to take on. Things that weren’t necessarily a part of her, but still indelibly attached to her, for the rest of her life.

She would have to tell him the story, once they reached Thanedd. Let him decide if he wanted to go deeper into her life, her world. This wasn’t just about loving her nature, but also accepting her circumstances.

It was a lot to accept. She closed her eyes tighter, turned her head to the side, away from him.

He stirred again. His hand came out, resting on her hipbone again. He must have heard her moving and sensed her growing agitation.

“You getting too hot?” He asked quietly, voice still thick with sleep. He was getting more rest than he’d had in several days, she realized with a flutter of relief.

“Maybe,” she returned softly. She rolled to her side, pushed herself up to sit. “I’ll be back.”

She went back into the water, all the way past her shoulders, waiting long enough to truly feel her body cooling down. Came back, dripping wet and filled with a sudden fire. Gently took his shoulder, rolling him onto his back and leaning over him to kiss her way across his chest, up to his mouth. His hands were roaming, delighting at the feeling of her skin.

He was still warm and languid and sleepy-soft. He let her take what she needed, let her hips roll heavy and deep like the waves, let her watch him with burning, shaking adoration as she became chaos all over again, frenetic and feral and searing with want and need as she pinned him down.

He merely smiled, reaching up to cup the side of her face. She broke in an instant, shattering atop him and suddenly feeling heavy and golden again.

Yes, he loved her. He would stay. He’d promised. She’d done nothing to earn his love, but by the same token, she couldn’t do anything to revoke it, either.

His hands were on her hips now, gently rocking her back and forth, still shooting sparks through her veins. She settled into her own bones enough to keep going, to let him finish, too. She kept her eyes open, kept them locked onto his until the end, her throat going tight with emotion at the sight.

He trusted her. That was just as deep, just as important. And she trusted him—trusted him to be strong enough to handle what came next, to accept the things he still didn’t know existed yet, to love her just as deeply as he’d claimed, just as fervently as he’d shown her, time and again.

She gingerly lifted her leg over his hip, collapsing beside him and bringing her head back to his chest, relishing the steady beat of his heart against her ear.

 _My heart_ , she thought dazedly. It was in his chest, but it was a treasure entirely in her keeping now. It was pure gold and she’d protect it, as fiercely as any dragon would.

* * *

They spent hours on the beach, in the end. Eist kept falling asleep and Calanthe was too loathe to wake him, knowing how little he’d slept over the past few nights. Eventually they did get dressed and led their horses back up the ridge, following the road along the edge of the forest.

They stopped at twilight and moved further into the forest, closer to a freshwater stream. Eist offered to take first watch, since he’d dozed half the day away. Calanthe didn’t argue—she’d felt sleepy from the warmth of the sun all day, and for once, she knew it’d be easy to drift off. She shook the sand out of her bedroll ( _still_ , sand everywhere, _how_ ) and settled down for the night, offering one last smile before turning her back to the low fire.

Eist simply watched the shift in her breathing, noting the second she drifted off completely. He looked around, out into the darkness where the horses swayed against each other, asleep as well. He looked up to the moon, shining full and bright between the trees.

He suddenly didn’t feel well. Felt the prickle of sweat rash over his skin, felt an uneasiness in his gut.

Perhaps it was dinner, he thought, the fish he’d caught and they’d cooked over the fire. He cast a worried glance over at Calanthe. She was still fast asleep, seemingly unbothered.

Still, he felt ill. He reached for his flask, taking a long drink of water.

The unwell feeling only grew as the night wore on. He could feel the rising stuffiness in his head, as if he were getting a fever, and he realized he was shaking. His skin was clammy, oddly warm to the touch—like Calanthe’s skin usually was. The fire suddenly seemed too bright, almost hurting his eyes.

He felt a wave of dizziness. And more than anything, he felt an overpowering urge to run.

 _Just get some air, to clear your head_ , he thought to himself. He wobbled to his feet, casting one last glance at Calanthe’s form, outlined by firelight. He wouldn’t wake her, not yet. He’d stay nearby, just in case. She was safe; she would be safe.

He stumbled into the darkness and felt a pain tearing up his arm.

Something wasn’t right. No—nothing was right, nothing at all.

The world spun and pain exploded through his mind, white-hot and overpowering.

* * *

The sound of Eist’s scream jolted Calanthe awake, her pulse hammering as she looked around wildly, trying to regain her bearings.

Eist. It was Eist she’d heard, no doubt about it—he wasn’t here, where was he?

She rolled onto her feet, grabbed her ax, and took off running as if her life depended on it, pushing out with her charm and trying to sense his in return. _Please feel me, please show me where you are, please let me find you, please—_

She felt him. Felt something else, too. Bile surged in her throat and made her chest tighten as her breaths became heavier and more panicked, as she tried to discern which direction to go, where the sensation was coming from.

She heard him give a short, pained shout and she bolted in the direction of the sound, pushing through brambles and looking around wildly, trying to find the feeling of him again.

She detected it—faint, fading in a way that sent terror through her veins. She pushed her legs to run faster, barreling into another small pool of moonlight in the middle of the forest.

She came to a stop, her entire body filling with dread.

No.

The creature slowly shifted, hulking and fearsome in the moonlight, turning to look at her.

She couldn’t feel Eist anymore. She couldn’t feel him at all. She held her ax handle with both hands, taking a breath to steady herself—if this fucker had done anything—

That’s when she realized exactly what was turning towards her, head cocking to the side in canine curiosity.

 _No_.

She heard her ax drop to the ground, but she didn’t feel it leave her fingers. She didn’t feel anything. She couldn’t think or do anything beyond stare in horror at the werewolf rising up to its full height before her, it entire body rippling with a low, venomous growl.

She couldn't feel Eist anymore. But there was no blood on the werewolf, no signs of a struggle. 

It took a step towards her. Her stomach became water, sloshing and churning. She’d never been so terrified before—and how many monsters had she slain, now? How many years, how many atrocities has she seen—how many had she committed herself, without blinking?

This was different. Entirely different.

This was Eist. Her heart clenched with certainty and fear.

It moved closer. She could feel the heaviness of her own chest, rising in panicked, sharp breaths.

It was now close enough for her to see its eyes—blue, pure blue, as blue as the sea. Her entire body contracted with a sense of pain and tears sprung in her eyes.

It growled again, then shifted back, as if tugged by an invisible leash. Fear rippled down her spine as she watched its lips twitch and curl, revealing even more teeth. Her throat tightened, and she could already feel the bite, the exact way it would launch itself at her. Her hands shook, but she could not will them to reach for her belt, reach for her knife, reach for anything to save herself. Not when she looked into those blue eyes and knew exactly where they belonged, exactly to whom they belonged.

_Oh, Pavetta. I am so sorry._

And even though she knew the answer, she numbly heard her own voice asking:

“Eist?”

* * *

_The thing—intruder, enemy, prey—stands, shaking. Eyes like prey. Soft and scared and—_ **Lioness** _—filling with tears._

_Scent. Familiar scent. Sweat and dirt and—_ **Calanthe** _—sea. Staring at him, breathing heavily. Frozen like a rabbit._

_Thing—_ **no, Calanthe** _—_ **mine** _—blinks again. Tears rolling down its face._

**Run!** _—attack—_ **no!** _—bite—_ **pull back!** _—snap as thing stumbles backwards, to the ground, still watching with watery eyes of fear. Defenseless. Shaking._

_Chase, chase, make it run—_ **run, Cal, please, run!** _—but it doesn’t. It waits. It looks up, keeps eye contact—enemy, not prey, fellow hunter, dangerous—_ **my love** —

“Eist?”

**_Run_.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of y'all know I do playlists to go along with my fics. This one's playlist hasn't been finalized/released yet, but I need you to know the outro for this chapter is Timber Timbre's "Run From Me." I highly recommend giving it a listen ASAP. Just because :)


	19. The Other Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo. I left y'all on a fucking cliffhanger and B O U N C E D.  
> Let's pretend that being overwhelmed by life and having wildly unmanageable anxiety is a charming and endearing facet of my "quirky" personality that we all smile over and move along. <3  
> For what it's worth: adding an additional two chapters later as well. So if you're reading this and it only shows 19 chapters, come back in a bit for the extra two, mkay?

_Just make it til the morning. Everything will be alright in the morning._

Calanthe took another breath to steady herself—although at this point, nothing could calm her nerves or the way they made her body tremble. She leaned against the tree, turning her face to the sky as she echoed the mantra that had saved her life, more than once.

_Just make it til the morning._

It was light enough, now. Safe enough. Safe enough to go find him.

Her throat tightened and the now-overly-familiar taste of bile blossomed at the back of her tongue.

She should be dead right now. Torn to shreds. But the creature—or more aptly, Eist within it—had spared her.

She’d stumbled to the ground, completely helpless and already accepting her fate, even as she’d felt the overwhelming shame at how passive she’d become. The creature had watched her, almost curiously. Then, with a sudden flash of frenetic energy, it had bolted away. She’d been left, panting and panicked, unsure of how she’d been spared.

Then she’d grabbed her ax and hauled arse back to the camp. With shaking, fumbling hands, she’d brought the horses closer to the fire—they were already skittish, already aware of something dangerous in the woods—and used the bits of wolfsbane and silver from the last hunt to put a protective circle around the area.

Then she’d found the easiest tree to climb, circled it with wolfsbane and scaled up, sitting in a branch and tying herself to the trunk so that she wouldn’t fall out if she ever fell asleep.

Not that sleep had truly been a possibility, really. She’d heard howling in the distance, and part of her had feared that he would travel too far for her to find him—or worse yet, he’d travel far enough to meet other humans, who wouldn’t hesitate to end him. She’d considered pushing out with her charm, to lure him closer and keep him nearby—and had done it, only once, shaking and terrified the entire time. If he had felt it, it hadn’t been enough for him to truly find her again, and she’d felt a measure of relief for that as well.

Her hands shook as she untied the rope around her waist. Her muscles ached and her toes tingled uncomfortably after being stuck in the same position for hours.

Her stomach roiled with fear again, and she hurried to climb down the tree before she was sick, heaving up bile onto the ground (so much for that section of wolfsbane ever being reusable).

Eist was dangerous. Not because of his monstrous condition, though. He was dangerous because Calanthe truly did love him—loved him to death, apparently.

She’d long been one to not make promises. But over the years, she’d always made one singular promise: she wouldn’t die at the hands of a monster. Not for her own sake. And last night, she’d almost broken that promise.

 _Pavetta_ , she breathed again, her heart aching anew. _I was so close, and I am so sorry._

She took a few more deep breaths, bracing her hands on her knees. Then, slowly, she stood up straight again, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

First things first. She took the horses to get water, and found a meadow where they could graze while she searched for Eist. She made sure that she had some food and a small collection of ointments and vials—hopefully Eist was well and uninjured, but she had to be prepared for anything.

Anything. The thought made her stomach clench again. She had to still, to steel herself against another wave of nausea.

She finally opened her eyes, looking to the sky. It was morning. Everything would be alright now.

Still, she took her ax. Straightened her shoulders and trudged off in the direction she’d seen him last.

She didn’t call out, didn’t call his name. For some reason, her throat was too tight. And besides, there was no guarantee that they were the only two in the woods—she didn’t want to bring any more attention to herself than was absolutely necessary (another habit, long ingrained).

Instead, she used her charm. Channeled all of her focus into pushing out around her, as far as possible. She’d never tested it, never really learned just how wide a net she could cast with it, but she prayed that somehow it would reach him, that somehow she would feel his in return.

She came to the clearing. Saw the scuffs in the dirt where she’d fallen. Saw tracks, leading away. She stopped for a moment, delicately gathering up the bits of Eist’s clothing that remained—his shoes, his torn shirt, his leather belt with the karambits still attached. She ached at the familiar things, ached with the thought that this might be all she ever found, ever again. Then she gritted her teeth, packed them into her rucksack, and continued on, following his tracks for as long as she could, until they disappeared due to the hardness of the ground and the thickness of the foliage covering the forest floor.

An age seemed to pass as she trudged on, not really sure of where she was going or even how to get back to where she’d been. The day was grey and overcast, much like the one before, and she couldn’t see the sun to gauge the time.

Then, finally, something. A faint push against her own charm, as indefinable as the first time one feels a child kicking inside them. Soft, unknown, distant and immediate.

She stopped, cautiously trying to discern which direction it came from. She pushed out again, and felt it—instinctively, she moved in the direction it seemed to originate. She moved forward several yards and tried again.

Stronger, only slightly. Still, confirmation enough. She kept moving, kept pushing, kept seeking. It wasn’t a steady beacon, rather one that flickered and waned—and it wasn’t pushing back, wasn’t actively seeking her in return. Her heart pounded with fear at the realization, at what it might mean for him. But she willed herself to stay calm, to keep her wits about her and for once not let her volatile nature boil over into panic or fear or anger, as it usually did.

She kept going. Finally it got stronger, clearer. But it was…different, somehow. As if maybe she was tracking another creature entirely, instead of Eist.

She began to move faster. It tumbled away from her again and she came to halt, heart pounding as she tried to figure out what was happening, where he’d gone.

Then, she sensed it again—hopefully him. She pushed her tired legs to run faster, to practically bolt through the trees. The sensation grew, familiar yet mixed with something uneasy and foreign.

She burst through a section of undergrowth and found him, sitting on the forest floor.

He was himself again. A pair of tattered breeches and a bare chest and a dazed, pained expression. He looked up at the sound of her arrival, and his face contorted in shock and confusion.

“Eist?” Just saying his name hurt like a knife between the ribs. Because it was still a question, still a doubt—was he back to his true self (could he ever be)?

His shoulders slumped forward, as if relieved.

“I….” He blinked, but still seemed unfocused. “I thought…I remember bits and pieces, but it’s all so hazy. I remember…you. You were right in front of me, and I couldn’t remember what happened next and I….”

He looked down at his hands. Calanthe noticed the blood for the first time. The stains that went past his wrists, the splatters across his chest.

“I was so afraid,” he admitted softly. “So afraid that I had…that you were….”

He seemed to melt farther into the ground, as if completely exhausted. His head dipped forward and her heart pulled along with it.

Calanthe felt her lungs and throat slam shut with tears. Somehow she still found the air to breathe, to quietly offer, “No, no. I’m here. Nothing happened, I’m here.”

“But…I could have.” He still didn’t look up. The fear and the sorrow etched his tone so deeply. “You were right there and I could have.”

He had a point, she knew—logically, at least. And yes, she had thought that he might attack, at first. He still could, next time.

She should take the ax in her hands and end it, for him. Save them both.

She dropped it instead ( _again_ ). Moved closer and chose comfort over condemnation, quietly speaking with absolute certainty, “You couldn’t have. Never. Not even…like that.”

And it was absolutely true, she realized with a slight blossom of surprise. Just as her head knew the logic of how and why he could attack, her heart knew the truth of how and why he never would. Even in that moment, he had still been Eist, in some small way—large enough to overcome the curse. She had seen it in his eyes, seen it even in the darkness, even through her fear.

He was shaking now—from nerves and cold, probably. As usual, Calanthe wasn’t much affected by the weather, but she could see the fog that seemed to rise from her body and she knew it must be quite cool to others. She closed the distance between them, coming to kneel before him, gently taking his hanging head and guiding it to her shoulder. She held him, letting her palms press into the bare, clammy skin on his back, trying to push as much warmth into his body as possible.

Just as she had when he was sick with fever, she dazedly realized. This was no different. He was ill and she would find a way to cure him, to bring him back to his health and his usual self.

“I’m here,” she offered simply, nuzzling her lips against his temple. “I’m here and you didn’t hurt me.”

His hands came up, clutching at her waist, holding her tightly.

“Why didn’t you just kill me?” He asked, half-muffled by her collarbone.

Her throat tightened at the thought. She blinked back another round of tears and quietly confessed, “Because…I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

Not entirely true, she inwardly conceded. But he needed to believe that, in this moment. He needed to understand that she didn’t fear him. She let her left hand come back up to cradle his head, to keep him in place as she bowed her own head lower, pushing herself to answer with the actual truth:

“And in that moment, I knew I could never hurt you, either. Not even if it killed me.”

She placed a small kiss on his temple. It felt like a benediction.

Eist could hear the rapid beating of her heart beneath his ear, which was still pressed against her shoulder. Could feel the growing warmth of her skin through the layers of her shirts. But this wasn’t the usual familiar ripple of desire that emanated from her body whenever they held each other. This was…protective. Fierce in a way that had nothing to do with lust.

This was a dragon, protecting her prized hoard, her golden egg, he thought a bit numbly. Willing to burn the world to keep it safe.

Except _he_ was the thing she was keeping safe—and he was not safe.

“It’s going to be alright,” she whispered again, her voice shaking just as much as her body. “We’ll—we’ll find an answer, and it will be alright.”

But he knew—just as well as she did—that cures rarely, if ever, worked. Her optimism was valiant, but in this case, it could be killing.

His mind flashed with a hazy memory of the night before—the one that had played in his mind on repeat, since he’d awoken to find himself human again, dazed and aching: Calanthe, on the ground, looking up at him with wide, fearful eyes. Terrified—of him, _because_ of him.

 _Not even if it killed me_ —and it just might, he thought with another pang. He just might. He couldn’t remember every detail of last night, but he remembered the primal screeching in his brain, the sensation of being trapped and controlled by a body that was his and entirely-not-his at the exact same time. He remembered how desperately one side of him had wanted to tear her to pieces. He still wasn’t sure how he hadn’t—it must have taken every ounce of willpower and determination to run away, to save her. Could he do it again? He wasn’t sure. The uncertainty was terrifying.

He couldn’t live with it. Couldn’t live with the overwhelming fear that he might fail—couldn’t live with the burden of what failure would mean, exactly.

He couldn’t live. The absolute certainty sank into his gut like a stone. He was incurably cursed, and he wouldn’t be selfish, wouldn’t make a choice that put others in danger.

Especially not her. All of this, this grand adventure, this beginning of the end, had always, _always_ been for her safety. He’d come along, because there had been a slight chance that she might actually be in danger (and oh, what terror to realize he’d become that danger). How could he risk potentially putting her in such danger again, on the slight chance that he might find a way to break this curse? How could he allow himself to continue being by her side, when he was the greatest source of danger she could ever encounter?

“Are you hurt?” Her low tone gently interrupted his dark and dour thoughts. She still kept her hand on his head, kept him pressed against her shoulder, where he could hear her voice echo in her chest, solid and reassuring.

Tears sprang to his eyes again. Of course. He’d nearly killed her, and all she could think about was his own safety and comfort.

 _You will know the love of a thousand suns_ , Vanielle’s words echoed in his head. Yes, he had hoped that it was with Calanthe, but he couldn’t imagine anything that would change the dynamic of their relationship at the time. And now he’d known it, known _her_ , more deeply than he could have ever imagined.

What a monstrous way to bring it about, he thought sourly. Quite literally. She’d finally realized that she loved him, and he was going to have to die, to keep her safe.

But he didn’t say these things aloud. He could feel her shaking as she held him—she wasn’t ready to accept these truths, he realized, and given her confession, she’d never be able to.

He merely tightened his arms around her. “No. I’m not hurt.”

That was the most reassurance he could give, in the moment. She seemed to understand, because she simply hummed and kissed the top of his head.

“Then it’s all going to be alright,” she repeated softly. He wondered if she kept saying it to reassure herself, if perhaps she knew the truth of their situation, too. “I’m safe and you’re safe and that’s all the matters. That’s all that matters.”

Now he agreed, though not in the way she assumed. Her safety had always been all that mattered. He would keep her safe still, he promised himself. She wasn’t able to do what needed to be done, because she loved him—loved him too much, perhaps. Loved him like his father had loved his mother, to the point of destruction.

He had a whole moon to prepare. To know this love of a thousand suns. It was enough. It would be enough. Then he would do what was necessary to protect her, from him.

* * *

Eist remained distant, in an almost-chagrined way, Calanthe noted. He barely made eye contact as they headed back to camp (it was a minor miracle that Calanthe found her way back, truth be told). And when she took him to the stream to bathe, he wouldn’t touch her, wouldn’t do anything but accept her attentions and attempts to help him clean up—it was as if he feared her, feared breaking her, feared hurting her still.

She didn’t point it out, didn’t push the issue. It was natural, she told herself, to feel a bit out of sorts for a while, after a transformation like that. It would take a little time, for him to feel fully settled in his body again. She wouldn’t pressure him. She’d simply be there, simply show that she held no fear herself, simply touch him in ways that grounded him back into his body, that reminded him of all that they were, all that he was, truly.

She washed his hair and washed away the blood (she didn’t ask, didn’t want to know where it came from), brought him back ashore to sit on a nearby rock, cleaned up the cuts and scratches on him, and gingerly patted him dry with the linen towel. She didn’t try to talk—some things didn’t need words, she thought. But once she was done, she simply took his chin in her fingertips and lightly pressed her lips into his.

He didn’t kiss her back. Her heart fluttered with hurt.

She pulled back, simply watching him with careful eyes.

Of all the things she did fear, this was it. Losing him. Losing him, while he was still here, still right in front of her. As long as he was here, as long as he was committed to finding a cure, as committed as she was, then everything would be alright—she kept telling herself that, over and over again, willing it to be true. She couldn’t handle any other alternative.

“Better?” She prompted, immediately regretting her stupid choice of words. Of course things weren’t better. Not yet, not for a while. She understood that.

He merely blinked. She gently stroked the side of his face.

“You should eat something, and get a little rest,” she decreed softly.

He gave a slight nod, though she could tell that he wanted to disagree, to refuse.

He needed space, she realized. Time to process. So she turned and headed back to camp, her heart heavy and filled with aching hope that he wouldn’t stay away for too long—physically or emotionally.

He eventually joined her, fully dressed and still looking like a quieter, flatter version of himself. That hurt the most, she realized. Seeing him without his usual spark, the silence left behind in the absence of his jokes and quips, the lack of him, even when he was just a few feet away.

He was so much—so much to love and be loved by, she thought. His charm and his soothing ways, his sense of humor and his gregarious story-telling, his mischief and his playfulness. He filled everything and every part of her to the brim with joy and delight—he provoked her chaos, in the best of ways (usually). And now…he didn’t. He wasn’t himself, wasn’t anything but small and bereft.

She wanted to go to him. To close the distance between them in every way, to bring him back to her. Wanted to hold him tight until all the broken pieces melded together again, to soothe the jagged edges and their aching cuts on his precious, wonderful heart.

But she thought of the fear in his fingertips, in the moments when he’d briefly touched her. The look in his beautiful heartbreakingly blue eyes when he’d asked _why didn’t you just kill me?_ The broken way he admitted thinking that he’d hurt her, in some way. The way his gaze constantly slid away from hers, furtive and ashamed.

He wasn’t ready, she told herself. She wouldn’t push. He needed space to breathe, and she could give him whatever he needed, even if it meant denying her own wants and needs.

After a quiet breakfast, she finally convinced him to lay down and take a nap. As much as she’d rather leave this place and never look back, she knew that they both were too exhausted to be traveling at the moment.

She sat, propped up against a nearby tree, watching him curl into himself under his coverlet, his back turned towards her.

He’d never fallen asleep facing away from her, she suddenly realized. Even the times that he fell asleep holding her—she might have been facing away from him, but he was always turned into her.

She felt a sudden spike of determination. No. She could be patient and gentle, she could let him take the time he needed to come back to her—but she couldn’t lose him. She could let him rest, but not retreat.

She rose to her feet and moved forward.

Eist heard a slight commotion, felt the air stirring around him in his hazy half-asleep state. As tumultuous as the past twelve hours had been, Calanthe had been right—he desperately needed to rest, and his body had no issue with tumbling into it, regardless of how his mind and heart still swirled with fear and anxiety.

He shifted slightly, trying to awaken enough to figure out what was going on. Before he truly could, though, he felt Calanthe beside him, laying down to wrap her arm around his chest, pulling her front into his back and burying her face between his shoulder blades.

She was warm, as ever. Weighted and comforting against him—again, even as his heart churned with juxtaposed emotions, his body responded with a feeling of calm, having already been so thoroughly trained to react to hers with nothing but peace and delight.

She didn’t say anything. He didn’t either. He simply let her hold him, falling fully into sleep again.

But still, he understood—Calanthe was holding on to him, through it all. She didn’t fear him, and she didn’t love him any less.

It should have been comforting. It only made his heart ache more.

* * *

They woke again in the late afternoon, and quietly decided to keep going. If they rode at a solid pace, they could make it to Gors Velen, the coastal town across the bay from Thanedd Island.

The ride was relatively silent, Eist caught up in his thoughts and Calanthe too fearful to interrupt them. When they reached Gors Velen, they rented a room for the night—and Calanthe took the chance to tend to Eist’s cuts and scrapes again, trying to keep her touches light and comforting, trying not to push too far or for too much before he was ready.

But oh, she ached for him. Craved his touch and his presence and his attention—all day, he’d been so quiet and withdrawn, it had been as if he wasn’t there at all. She wanted to cry, to whine and demand his affection and attention once more, but she simply gave him space and showed him, at every small opportunity, that she was open, ready for him to return, to give her or take from her whatever he needed, whenever he needed it—not just physically, but emotionally, too.

“I’m still so exhausted,” he admitted quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

She hummed in agreement, slowly taking off the rest of her clothes. There was only so much she could go without—she’d still sleep next to him with nothing between them, still have the comfort of his skin against hers. It stung, the way he averted his gaze, as if he couldn’t quite stand to look at her, even if she knew it wasn’t because her body no longer appealed to him. It was the simple act of denial that gesture implied—that he didn’t have the right to look any more, the right to want and love what he saw. As if he could ever be unworthy of everything she had to offer, body and soul. She ached to show him, ached to make him open his eyes and see again, but she understood that some things required patience for proper healing, so she simply pushed back her hurting feelings and reminded herself that there was love in waiting, too, love in letting him find himself at his own pace and in his own way.

“It’s been a day,” she agreed softly. She moved back to him, ruffling a hand through his hair and lightly cupping the side of his face. He still didn’t meet her gaze. She realized that while she could wait for him to come back to her physically, the emotional distance was something she could not abide—and something she shouldn’t allow, for both their sakes. She simply watched him for a beat before quietly declaring, “I’m not afraid of you, you know. Never have been, never will be.”

Despite the reassurance, Eist’s mind flashed back to the absolute fear in her eyes, just last night. She must have sensed where his thoughts went, because she stepped closer, taking his face in both hands and directing his gaze up to meet hers. It hurt, surprising and sharp, looking into those dark eyes and seeing just how deeply she was being affected by this, too.

“Eist. That wasn’t you,” she told him, face lined with absolute conviction. “I could…see you, in there. And I saw the moments you were in control. The moment you saved me. I know who you are. And I know what you are, too.”

He let his hands come up to her hips. She took it as a good sign. She brushed her thumbs over his cheekbones encouragingly. But he didn’t do anything else, didn’t touch her further, and she tried not to hurt at the loss, tried to tamp it down and simply smile at him.

Calanthe terrified him, Eist realized. She absolutely terrified him, with her certainty, her inability to do anything but run headlong into danger, her love and just how far it could push her to destruction, if he allowed it to.

She leaned in, kissed the top of his head. “You’ll remember, too, soon enough. Let’s get some sleep, my love.”

 _My love._ His heart ached at the phrase. He’d had so much time to think about it all, throughout the day. To look back over everything Vanielle had predicted with a new set of eyes.

 _The end of self_ —yes, he was no longer himself anymore, and he would have to end it. And it was his actions—the very actions that earned him this bite, this curse, the actions that brought out the illness during which Calanthe admitted her love—that had brought everything about. But his motivation had always been for her.

She truly was a harbinger. And yet he didn’t blame her or hate her for it. How could he? He’d chosen her, time and again, for years now. Had chosen his own path and his own actions, and this had somehow always been part of his fate, written in his stars before he was ever even born.

Vanielle had not promised a cure, or a happy ending. She’d promised, quite simply, his own ending.

But not quite yet. He lightly patted Calanthe’s hip and agreed, “Let’s get some sleep.”

She hummed, gingerly disengaging from his grasp to walk around the bed to the other side. She watched him slip beneath the covers with cautious, compassionate eyes, and his heart clenched again. She loved him, so deeply, so desperately.

Of all the ways he’d accepted his mother’s legacy, he’d never expected it to be like this.

* * *

Calanthe awoke to the feeling of Eist pulling her in closer, nuzzling a kiss against her temple as the solid reassurance of his chest pushed into her shoulder blades. Relief broke through her entire body. _Finally_. He was coming back to himself, back to her.

“I have to go,” he announced quietly, though it seemed to boom through the entire room.

She stopped. He shifted against her again, and she could feel the tension in his body, the way it took every ounce of control not to tremble.

And in turn, Eist felt the realization of his words bolt through Calanthe’s body, the way she froze, as if completely stunned.

“Oh,” she said simply, her voice still etched with the raspy, tender warmth of sleep. It was the smallest sound he’d ever heard, in all the world. He could feel her shrinking in his arms, wilting under the weight of it all.

He held her a little tighter, his throat catching with emotion. He’d been awake for hours, wrestling with the decision in his mind. He’d been prepared for her arguments, for her resistance—but this, this smallness and sadness, was almost too much.

 _I love you_ , his heart cried. _And I will do what it takes to keep you safe—even if it kills me._

His arm was around her chest, and he felt her hand tighten around his forearm, the desperation evident in the touch.

“I know—I know people, people who can help us.” She faltered a bit, as if overwhelmed. “This…this can be cured—”

“Cal,” he interrupted gently, his heart breaking all over again. “We’ve made our entire livelihoods based on the knowledge that most curses like this can only be cured one way.”

Death. The thought struck her like a wall of ice. She wriggled in his grasp, turning into him fully and wrapping her arms around him, holding him, shielding him against such a fate.

“You don’t understand,” she returned urgently. And he didn’t. She hadn’t had the chance to tell him everything, to explain. “I really do—I have so much to tell you, and I’ll explain it all on the way, if you’ll just come with me—there are people who can help us. Please. Just…trust me.”

Eist wanted to weep—because he did trust her, in all things except when it came to her love, her endless optimism that they’d be alright no matter what. He couldn’t trust her in that—because his other curse, his mother’s curse, was at work there.

He’d convinced himself that his charms only worked when he wanted them to, when the recipient chose to let them. Had told himself that everything Calanthe did and said and felt was entirely of her own free will. But now, he feared that perhaps he was wrong. Because over the past few weeks, he truly had set out to seduce more than just her body—he’d pursued her heart, with unwavering focus and determination. Now he had it, and she was a helpless, desperate wreck because of it. She’d drown herself in this love, in the most damaging and destructive way.

Yet again, his mind flashed to the moment she’d fallen on the forest floor, looking up at him in fear—and yes, even then, he’d seen love. She was willing to die for this, for him. She had become completely enthralled, and if he truly loved her, he had to break her chains.

He did truly love her.

He kissed her forehead. She seemed to understand the refusal in the small gesture, because she made a half-strangled sound, holding him tighter.

“You promised,” she whispered, fast and harsh and shaking with desperation. Her fingertips bit into his skin and he felt the sudden flush of her body, felt the way she rattled in his arms, more than ready to fight him, to fight _for_ him. She was chaos-in-waiting, the final deep breath before a storm, and his heart ached again at how he'd come to affect her, how much pain he'd already inadvertently brought into her life. “You promised to stay.”

Now the tears stung his eyes and he didn’t try to keep them back. Suddenly, she melted, making a small sound as she nuzzled into his neck, as if trying to hide away, trying to mend herself to him, to stay with him always.

“I’m trying to protect you,” he pointed out thickly.

Calanthe felt the tears, thick and hot, welling up her throat. This was all her fault. She was losing him, because he was trying to save her—save her from a situation that would never even exist if she hadn't been so brash and headstrong, if she had simply _listened_ and _waited_ when he told her to, if she hadn't been so prideful in accepting the commission in the first place, if she had simply kept her own promises made along the way.

“So am I,” she returned. “I made a promise, too, remember?”

Eist's heart clenched unpleasantly at the memory, at the part of their life that seemed to be another lifetime entirely.

 _I’ll keep you safe from the big bad monsters_ , she’d quipped, on the way to Velhad, when she’d learned about the prophecy. Gods above, it seemed like ages ago.

But what did that mean, when the big bad monster was him?

“I can’t….” He began, felt his throat slam shut with emotion, then stopped, tried again. “Calanthe, I can’t forget the sight of you, when I almost—I could have killed you. And I can’t ever let you even potentially be in that situation again. I can’t, Cal. Nor do I want to force you to…do what needs to be done.”

She held him so tightly that his ribs hurt. “Please. Just…come with me. Let me…try. Just let me try.”

She was still shaking, both her voice and her body. She placed a series of small kisses against his collarbone, and he understood the mantra they held: _please, please, please, please_.

Even now, even with so much at stake, he couldn’t refuse her. And a part of him knew that he couldn't, even if he wanted to—he could feel the determination radiating from every ounce of her being, knew she wouldn't let him leave without a fight, an actual physical fight, if that's what it took (and gods above, he loved her all the more for it, adored her fire and fury and every aspect of her, as always). His heart and his defenses crumbled.

“I will come back,” he promised quietly. “And we can go…wherever, to see your people. But…I need to go see my own, first. Just…in case.”

 _Just in case it doesn’t work. Just in case you can’t cure me._ Calanthe understood the unspoken half of his statement. But she couldn’t do anything except melt in relief at his acquiescence. 

Still, she prompted, “Promise me.”

“On my life—”

“No. Promise me on something that means more to you than that.” She shifted back, releasing him just enough, putting just enough distance between them to make eye contact.

She had a point, he realized. Right now, his life held little value, if ending it saved hers.

He swallowed hard. Kept his gaze locked onto those big brown eyes that were still sheening with desperate tears. “I promise on the love I have for you, I’ll come back.”

She nodded at that. He saw a tear slip down her cheek.

“Meet me in Verden?” She breathed, as if still fearful of his answer.

He nodded. Leaned in and kissed her forehead again, sealing the promise.

And yet, he wasn’t entirely sure that he hadn’t just lied to her.

She shifted against his mouth, pressing harder into the kiss, seeking him out. He felt another wave of chagrin and pity. He knew he’d been distant and withdrawn, over the past twenty-four hours, and of course, she’d noticed it. But her need for more only further proved his point. She should be afraid of him. She should be relieved that he wasn’t reaching for her, with the same hands that had been covered in blood when she’d found him in the forest (and he still didn’t know from who or what, was still so afraid to know). She should be putting distance between them herself—and yet, at every turn, he’d constantly felt the pull of her, the way she continuously hovered and gravitated back to him, ready to be held again without hesitation. Again, this was the curse. She loved him too much, and it would destroy her.

Further proving his point, she quietly spoke. “Kiss me. I won’t—I understand if anything else is…too much, right now, but please. Don’t…leave before you’ve actually left.”

He cupped the side of her neck, shifting so that their faces were aligned again. She was watching him with wide, cautious eyes, hurting and fearful and yet still so hopeful. She brushed the tip of her nose against his, a small test, a silent prompt. He kissed her, softly and slowly letting it deepen—he felt the blossom of heat from her body, radiating against his bare skin, and he wanted to weep. This should be a beautiful morning, the beginning of a beautiful time between them, and yet, it was the end.

He’d keep his promise, he realized. He would come back to her, one last time—if for no other reason than to prove that he wasn’t his mother, to know that he didn’t leave her wondering and waiting for the rest of her life. He didn’t expect any cure to work, but he would take the time to give her every ounce of himself that he could, for as long as he could.

The fear of a single moon. Vanielle had predicted this, too. The night of his transformation had been his moment, his single moon of fear. He wouldn’t go through it again.

But until then, he’d try to bask in the glow of Calanthe and her love of a thousand suns. Regardless of what he deserved, she deserved nothing but goodness and joy—she deserved to have him give as much of himself as he could.

For the first time since awaking after his transformation, he felt a surge of life in his veins. It didn’t feel so hazy and distant, all the sensations and emotions from before. He let his hand slip down to her hip, already so warm to the touch. She tightened her grip around his waist, rolling forward slightly, just enough into his hand to encourage him. She was still holding back, still trying to be as kind and patient as possible—an even greater feat, when considering whom he was dealing with, he mused with a soft flutter of affection. It was a fascinating juxtaposition, witnessing the changes in her body—before, when she'd been ready to fight him to stay, she'd been tense and fierce, and now, she was nearly timid, soft and pliant and trying not to push for more than what he would willingly give. And both states came from love, he realized with a dash of pained sadness. She was trying so hard to be exactly what he needed, to care for him at every turn.

Let her rain chaos, he thought, with a conflicting swirl of desire and nostalgia. Let her have a moment to unleash and feel a breath of normalcy again.

Calanthe tried not to get too hopeful, when she felt Eist’s touch deepen. Tried not to want beyond the simple connection of the moment, the familiar feeling of his lips against hers. Then his hand slid to the back of her thigh, directing her leg over his hip and bringing her entire body closer to his. She felt a burble of delight in her lungs, further surging at the sensation of his tongue pushing past her teeth, at feeling the way his body reacted to hers.

He broke the kiss to nuzzle into her neck, and while she wanted to weep in gratitude, she found herself quietly asking, “Is this—is this what you truly want?”

“I want you,” he returned simply. It was confirmation enough for her. She pushed hard enough to roll him onto his back, sliding on top of him and pressing back into him for a heady, hard kiss.

He held onto her hips, feeling a secondary wave of lightheadedness at the sudden push of her charm, washing over him with a force that he’d never felt before.

 _Stay_. The command was a clear in his mind, and he even heard it in her voice, as definitively as if she’d spoken it aloud. His body immediately obeyed, seeming to sink deeper into the mattress, suddenly dispossessed of all sense of will. With a flash, he suddenly realized that perhaps, her powers of persuasion were stronger than most creatures of charm—maybe, like her father, she truly could bend minds to her will, if she wanted to, deeply enough.

He remembered the look in her eyes, when he’d called her a full-blown dragon, the day things truly changed between them. The fear and the hurt. They’d never really talked about their parents or their pasts, but it had been evident (and utterly unsurprising) that Calanthe held no warm feelings towards her father. And for all the years he’d heard her crow and brag about her abilities, it had been the first time that he realized how much she actually feared them—how much she feared letting them consume her, letting herself become far too much like her father, in some way.

His mother’s curse was at work again. Pushing Calanthe to use her abilities in ways that she’d never wanted to, all out of desperation and love.

 _Why did you ever think you could have something not meant for monsters?_ His mind quietly chided. _Why did you ever forget exactly what you are, and what you do?_

In a way, he’d used his own abilities on himself. Had lulled himself into a false sense of security, had convinced himself that it was absolutely fine to go deeper, to sink further into this love without any consequences, as if his entire existence didn’t depend on such deceptions and manipulations.

It didn’t matter, he told himself. Soon enough, it would end. And Calanthe would have the rest of her life to recover, to find better and do better without him.

But he couldn’t let it all end with any room for doubt. He needed her to know, beyond all doubt, that in spite of everything, he had always loved her, as deeply and desperately as she loved him now. He couldn’t give her much, but he could give her moments to look back on, and know, with utter certainty, that everything he’d ever done for her and to her and with her had been done in love.

He wrapped his arms around her and rolled them, pinning Calanthe to the mattress. She gave a breathless little sound of surprise, her eyes wide and hopeful as ever. He leaned in and kissed her again, feeling a measure of satisfaction for the way she shifted beneath him, pushing a hum of delight into his lungs through the kiss as her knees came up, caging around his hips in encouragement.

No room for doubt, he promised himself, and set out to fulfill that promise to the fullest.

Calanthe closed her eyes and willed herself not to shake as Eist slowly kissed his way down her neck. Her lungs clenched painfully as she suppressed a sob—she wouldn’t let him see her cry, wouldn’t worry him further or give him any excuse to retreat. She also wouldn’t further his guilt by admitting these were tears of relief, mostly. That she was weeping because she’d missed him, even when he’d been right beside her physically.

But there was also fear. Fear that they’d never be like this again, that he’d never kiss along the line of her collarbone with such tiny tender touches, that she wouldn’t feel the familiar coolness of his skin against the heat of her own, that she wouldn’t hear the soft sounds of delight he made as he nipped the side of her breast, his hands gripping her hips with unmistakable intent and desire.

When it was safe, she let the tears come, hot and stinging against the sides of her face, trailing past her temples and into her hairline as she stared unseeingly at the ceiling, trying to commit every sensation to memory. It was like before, in the time when she couldn’t understand the feelings she had for him—she couldn’t quite look at him, because it was all too much. _He_ was all too much.

And yet this would never be enough. Her hands blindly found his head, now much farther down her body, stroking through his hair encouragingly. _Stay, stay, stay_ , her mind repeated, with each movement of her hand. _Stay and let me love you, let me help you and heal you and hold you, always_.

When his face came back up to hers, pushing his way inside her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held him so close that he couldn’t look at her again, couldn’t see the fresh wave of tears that came simply from the feeling of their bodies being truly connected again. She pressed her lips against his ear, letting him hear just how much she still wanted him, just how much she ached for him, even when he was as close to her as he could physically be. She wrapped her legs around him as tightly as possible, holding him in place as they rocked and shifted against each other. She felt the desperate tension rising in his body and she wanted to cry again at the thought that it was almost over, that he was one step closer to leaving her, in more ways than one.

 _Stay_ , her mind commanded again, and she couldn’t help the sharp sound that pulled from her lungs at the feeling of him obeying, shuddering into her as his entire body pressed into hers so deeply that she almost couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t try to pull out, to pull away. He waited, as she held on and pushed down another sob. She softly stroked the back of his neck, pressing further into him and relishing the feeling of his pulse pounding just below his jaw, steady and strong, just beneath her lips.

She could command him, she realized a bit numbly. She could use a myriad of means to make him stay—both magical and mundane.

But this was love, she realized. To let him go, to trust he would return, to allow him to do whatever he needed to heal and prepare for the work ahead.

He kept leaving small, staying kisses on the curve of her neck, each one a reassurance, a proof of his love—the very love he'd sworn on, when he promised to return. The very love she trusted to survive and overcome. The very love she felt towards him in return. The very love they'd proven, time and again.

This was love. She widened her thighs, opened her arms, closed her eyes, and let him go.

* * *

Calanthe insisted on going with Eist to the docks. Despite her trust, she still couldn’t shake the cloying feeling curling through her veins, the need to be stitched to his side for as long as possible.

She didn’t have the courage to ask exactly how long he would be away. He'd be back before the next moon, that much she knew. Worse still, she sensed that even when he did return, his condition would create a distance between them that would last until she could cure the curse.

It just meant she’d have to do it quickly, she told herself. She’d find the answer, she would. She would make him better, make them better again, too. She’d healed him once; she’d do it again. She’d move mountains, she’d tear down the sky itself and raise hell from the burning depths of the earth with her bare, bloody hands if that was what it took.

She slipped her hand into his, taking a beat to simply enjoy the way he instinctively squeezed it, another small reassurance. He let his thumb continue brushing over the back of her hand, soothing and half-distracted. Such a small gesture, and it meant the world—even now, he was more than she could have ever hoped, and her skin flushed warmer in adoration and affection as she watched him scan the dock, looking for his ship, fully focused while still giving her what comfort he could. His quiet kindness only furthered both her resolve and her love.

It was nearly noon. The entire morning had been Eist, completely inundating her, overwhelming her in the best of ways. She'd understood the point he was trying to make, and gladly let him make it—he wanted her fully reassured of his love, fully certain that the promise he'd made would hold through their time apart, absolutely sure that he loved her and that he would return _because_ he loved her. Her hips still ached with pleasant warmth and she was fairly certain that a few marks he'd left would still be on her skin when he returned.

There had been an apology in his demonstration, too. As if he'd fully understood how much she'd missed him, during the twenty-four hours that he'd emotionally withdrawn from her. As if he understood just how painful his physical absence would be, as well. And she had felt the tears prick her eyes again because even then, for all his careful attentions, she still felt the lack of his full self, still understood that his current ardor was fueled by his impending absence.

It all felt so final, she thought. The way he’d touched her, the way he’d sought to show the depth of his devotion. As if he thought he’d never have the chance to do so again.

As if perhaps he wasn’t actually ever coming back. The thought slid into her gut like an ice pick.

 _No_ , she pushed it away. Eist had promised, on the love he held for her. And she knew that was true, that was genuine—he would return.

Wouldn’t he?

They moved closer to the ship, and her stomach rippled, growing heavier with each step. She felt sick. She felt scared. She felt small and out of control, too much like her childhood. She gripped his hand in hers a bit more forcefully, fighting down the swell in her throat, the building pounding in her chest, each heavy beat of her heart tightening the muscles in her stomach.

She wanted to run away, to drag him with her. This wasn’t safe. The moment Eist was out of her care, he was in danger. She had no control, no way to truly ensure he would return.

She stopped walking, making him jerk to a halt in response, turning back to her with a slightly confused expression.

 _Don’t go,_ she wanted to scream, to cry, to fall upon her knees and beg. _Stay with me, now and always, just like you promised. I love you, don’t leave me._

But her mouth couldn’t move, beyond the trembling she could feel in her lips. She felt completely turned to stone by fear and grief.

Helplessly, she watched Eist’s expression shift with understanding and sadness, too. He took a half step back to her, and that was enough to break the spell—she launched herself to bridge the gap between them, wrapping him into her arms again. Her hand clutched at the back of his neck, holding him in place as she pressed her lips to his ear, shakily whispering, “Promise me, one more time. Promise me, Eist Tuirseach—swear that you’ll come back to me.”

Eist closed his eyes against a wave of tears. Calanthe’s grip around him was ironclad—he knew she wouldn’t let go until he promised, until he made her believe. So he returned the embrace, held her just as tightly, and softly returned, “I promise.”

“I love you.” Her voice still trembled, still sounded so small and afraid.

“I love you, too,” he reassured her thickly, squeezing her just a bit more to emphasize his words. “I love you and I will come back to you.”

He felt the gentle touch of her lips against the side of his neck, and he nearly broke into tears. Calanthe kept her arms around him but shifted just enough—he understood and countered, so that they could share one last kiss.

Then she pulled back abruptly, wrapping her arms around herself so tightly that he could see the white in her knuckles.

“Go,” she commanded, with a curt nod towards the gangplank. “Before I knock you unconscious and drag you back to Verden anyways.”

He huffed softly at that, a bit heartbroken at how perfectly _Calanthe_ the response was. He wanted to reach for her, to caress her face one last time, but he feared hurting her further, shattering her completely when she was trying so hard to be brave and strong.

So instead, he turned and headed for the ship. Once he was aboard, he found a spot on the railing and looked back onto the dock, where she stood, barely anything more than a pair of big brown eyes and a small little downturned mouth.

His heart ached and seared at the sight. He wondered if that was why his mother had never looked back, all those years ago.

For the first time, he felt that he might truly understand why his mother left. What she might have been trying to protect them from, what she might have been trying to outrun in herself.

And perhaps, just a little, for the very first time, he began to feel a measure of forgiveness towards the woman whose abandonment had haunted him for most of his life. Or at least…understanding for the choice she made. It would be so much easier, to leave and never look back, to tell himself that he was actually causing less pain by a quick and sudden departure, that there ultimately was great kindness is such a moment of cruelty.

But he was not his mother’s son. Not in this, he realized. He would return, and he would not take the coward’s route of slipping away without a true farewell. He would be better, and he would do better.

And perhaps that decision held a measure of forgiveness, too. For himself, for the bewildered child left alone on the beach that day, convinced that he was somehow to blame. That perhaps, he’d never been responsible for his mother or her actions, or even all the fallout that came afterwards within the rest of his family. Perhaps it hadn’t been about him at all, in an oddly comforting way.

Unlike his mother, he kept his face turned to the shore, watching an ever-shrinking form on the dock until she was entirely out of his sight.

Even when his eyes could no longer see her, his heart held the image, every waking second.


	20. Nearly Nine Years

**The North Shore, An Skellig.**

Eist couldn’t believe his ears. He repeated, yet again, “You’re selling the house?”

“Aye.” Sibba gave a curt nod, seemingly unfazed. She continued bustling around, pulling the pot of stew from over the fire and setting it onto the stone slab of the hearth, hanging up her thick kitchen towel and wiping her hands down the front of her apron. She moved back to the table, grabbing the wooden bowl in front of Eist, who still sat, completely dumbfounded by her revelation.

“But…why?”

She shrugged, turning her back to him to ladle the stew into his bowl. “No reason not to, I suppose.”

“No reason not to?”

“Ye gods and little fishes, Eist, have you been magicked into a parrot?” Now, for the first time, she sounded exasperated.

He felt a brief flash of chagrin, as he always did when he taxed the limits of his elder sister’s patience—she’d never had any say in the matter, in practically becoming his mother when she was still a child himself.

“Where will you go?” He asked quietly.

“To the south, to Urialla,” she announced, turning back to put his bowl on the table. He gently handed her the other empty bowl. Again, he felt a ripple of guilt—he’d only just returned from his most recent jaunt with his fishing crew, and she’d spent the entire afternoon making his favorite meal, and here he was, giving her grief. “I went once, a few years back. Seems like a good place for a new start.”

His guilt compounded. Of course. He and Bran could run off to sea for weeks on end. It was easier to forget. But Sibba, who looked so much like their mother, who spent every day of her life among the villagers who knew her and her story so well—her present and her future were constantly defined by her past.

He knew, with a souring stomach, that was why Sibba still hadn’t married, why she’d never even been courted—every eligible young man had been warned away, forbidden to ever so much as speak to the siren’s daughter, as cursed as her mother.

Mother. His mind rippled at the thought. He waited until Sibba returned to the table with her own stew before quietly asking, “And…what about Mother? What if…she returns? She won’t ever be able to find us again.”

His eyes stung at the thought—and even more so at how foolish it was. He was fourteen years old, practically a man. He should know better than to hold such childish ideas.

Still, Sibba’s hand slid across the table, lightly clasping over his.

“Eist.” Her voice was gentle, tinged with heartache. “Eist, it’s been nearly nine years. If she’d wanted to come back, she’s already had her chance.”

He nodded softly, trying hard not to blink, not to push the tears fully out of his eyes.

Sibba was right. If Mother had truly wanted to come back, she would have by now. But she hadn’t. She wouldn’t.

“I’ll help,” he said, simply. He focused on his dinner, stirring his spoon around idly and avoiding his sister’s gaze. “We won’t sail out for at least a week, maybe two—the weather’s changing and the captain says we gotta wait til it settles. I can…fix the shed doors and repatch the roof, do whatever else needs doing to make it sellable.”

Sibba squeezed his hand harder, a silent _thank you_.

They didn’t talk about it anymore. He regaled her with tales of his last voyage, and he tried not to notice the wistful sheen in her eyes—Sibba had rarely left their village, and even then, not for more than two or three days at the most. She spent her days weaving nets that would travel farther across the sea than she ever had or would. Eist felt another pang of sorrow. She’d stayed here for so long, for him. She deserved freedom, deserved a new start, deserved a life that for once was centered around what she needed and wanted.

So he helped her ready their childhood home, over the next two weeks. And when it came time to leave, he gave her a fierce hug, and promised to look for her in Urialla Harbor, whenever he returned.

He passed by the little brackish pool that he and Mother used to swim in, all the time. And with a sad sense of nostalgia, he realized he’d never return to this place again.

Just like Mother. He wondered if she’d ever even felt a flicker or sorrow of remorse or regret at the thought. Supposed she hadn’t, or really couldn’t.

Well, he’d return the favor. He wouldn’t look for her anymore, wouldn’t give a toss what had happened to her. She’d made her choice, and her children were making theirs.


	21. Fulfilled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mental Casting: As forever and always, I picture Sibba being played by the incomparable Sofie Gråbøl.

**Urialla Harbor, The South Shore, An Skellig.**

**Twenty-Nine Years Later.**

The worst part of the voyage was the stark realization of how quiet Eist’s life was, without a harbinger around. He didn’t consider Calanthe to be a particularly loud person (well…except in _certain_ situations), but now that she wasn’t here, he realized how often she'd filled the silence of his waking hours. He found himself bereft of the strange tuneless humming she did when so deep in thought that she didn’t realize she was making a sound at all, or the low little sounds she made when drifting to sleep or stretching awake, or the tapping of her fingers on her knee as she read, or the steady pacing of her feet across the floor because she could rarely sit still. His cabin aboard the ship felt like a tomb, devoid of all the life she brought to his.

And, of course, there was no chaos. No fights with random passengers or crew to diffuse, no whirlwind to survive between the sheets, no laughter for the off-color jokes that he didn’t make because there were no ears to hear.

He wondered exactly how she missed him, in turn. If she missed him at all, truly. Perhaps once he'd been truly gone, once his hold on her had lessened, Calanthe had come to her senses. Perhaps she’d truly looked at the situation, and understood the truth of his words: there would be no cure, and no use trying.

That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? His head said yes, but his heart shifted uneasily and couldn’t quite give answer.

It was then that he realized, despite all his certainty over how this would end, that he still held a small measure of hope for what could possibly happen. He tried to temper that hope with reality, but found that he couldn’t quite quash it yet.

He would genuinely try to find a cure, for Calanthe’s sake. But he also wouldn’t hesitate to do what needed to be done, if their attempts failed. It felt a bit odd, being so deeply committed to both routes, but it also felt right. Decided. Fated, almost.

By the time he arrived at Urialla, he felt a bit better, a bit surer. Still, his heart tugged with the memory of her face, the last time he’d seen her. He had taken a beautiful force of nature and made her weak, in some way. He’d unwittingly used his mother’s curse against the woman he loved more than he’d ever loved another, more than his own life—even if they found a cure for his lycanthropy, what of the other curse, what of the way he’d dragged her into this self-destructive path they dared to call love?

He constantly returned to two images, on repeat: the one of her fallen before him in the woods, willing to die, and one from their final morning together in Gors Velen, when she’d used her charm to command him to stay, the slow way she sat up and watched him with dark eyes as she felt his body obey. Her love could turn her timid, or tyrannical—and both of those reactions were because of him, because of his mother’s curse, because of his charm’s hold over her. She’d always been chaos, but he was making her even more unstable.

It hurt, trying to reconcile the wonder and the beauty of all the came before with the stark reality of how deeply it entangled them, how easily something so light could slip into darkness. Trying to accept both sides of the coin: that yes, their love had been good and soft and grounding, and that it also was powerful enough to make them both put themselves in needless danger.

His dreams were just as jumbled and confusing. Nightmares of her falling back to the ground under the light of the full moon—except this time, he did attack, he did taste her neck with his fangs, she did let him utterly destroy her. Softer dreams, also based in memories—rolling over in bed to see her shining eyes smiling at him, her fingertip tracing the line of his nose, her voice low and rumbly from sleep as she called him sweet names and admitted that she’d missed him while he’d slept. Dreams he didn’t know how to interpret—chasing her up a winding staircase, the full moon beaming through the narrow windows as she turned and smiled, her cheeks still shimmering with tracks of tears. And every night, the last dream he had before he woke was the sight of her, sadly watching him sail away.

He wanted to write to her, but realized that he wouldn’t even know where to send it—besides, he’d probably be back to her before the letter itself. Still, the need to reassure, to reconnect in some way, was still so overwhelming at times that his entire body ached at the thought.

That was another source of conflict—how desperately he wanted to be back with her, even as he acknowledged that his presence in her life only made things worse for her. He tried not to think too much on it. Either way, he would return to her, just as he’d promised. Once he was gone, his hold over her would be, too, he told himself. Calanthe was a fighter, a survivor, an overcomer. She would hurt and she would heal, and perhaps one day, she’d understand that it was for the best.

That’s all he ever wanted for her. The best. 

Despite the heaviness of the past few days, Eist still felt a stirring of joy once he reached An Skellig and set out on the road to Sibba’s home, just outside the city. His cheeks were twinging from the grin on his face as he made his way up the now-familiar path. Sibba had seen him from the road, and he could see the way she tossed the laundry in her hands back into the huge wicker basket, gathering her skirts and doubling her pace as she hurried across the front yard to the little wooden gate, her face alight with delight.

She held her arms open and he gladly fell into them, both of them laughing softly as they embraced.

“You bastard, you didn’t give me any warning,” she chided, her voice far too warm to give her words any weight.

“It wasn’t exactly planned,” he admitted. She stepped back a bit, keeping her hands on his shoulders.

“Everything alright?” She arched a critical and concerned brow.

“Long story,” he informed her. “Perhaps best told over a pint.”

She nodded, but her concern melted into another soft smile. “Well, whatever wind blew you home, I am glad for it. Peadar and the kids are out fishing—they’ll be home in time for supper, so we’ve a few hours to ourselves. Come on, then. Let’s get you settled in.”

She patted his upper arm and turned, leading the way back to the house. It was reminiscent of their childhood home—round, built of stone, with a thatched roof—but larger, better suited for her family and all the life that was always bursting within it.

He felt another wave of soft happiness. Sibba had found a new life on the south shore—she’d met a man who didn’t give a toss about her heritage, who’d loved her and made a family with her, and she’d trained a few local net weavers as well, taking on apprentices and building a reputation for the quality of her work. She’d given up net weaving a few years ago, finding that her hands ached and tightened too much under the work, and thankfully, Peadar’s work kept the family comfortable and fed.

He tried to make it out to An Skellig a few times a year, to see her and the kids. Bran had settled on Ard Skellig with a wife, but Bran hadn’t really tried to be in Eist or Sibba’s life for quite some time. But that was the way of things, sometimes, Eist supposed.

Then again, Sibba and Eist had a bond forged by the loss of Mother. Bran had already been away, already serving his apprenticeship aboard a fishing vessel, by the time she left. He hadn’t been there for so many of the things his younger siblings had endured, alone together.

Sibba had once quietly admitted that Bran didn’t miss Mother the same way as they did, because Bran had never truly been connected to her, from the beginning. Eist tried to remember how they’d interacted, but he never quite could. Sibba, being six years older, definitely had a better understanding of the family dynamic before Mother’s departure.

 _I think she loved Bran, as best she could—but for some reason, it was always a little different for them. Like there was a pane of glass between them_ , Sibba had said, frowning softly. With a shrug, she’d added, _Then again, he always favored Father, so maybe that’s why._

Eist had been too afraid to ask what she’d meant by that, so he never had. Now, he wondered again what she’d meant. Still, he didn’t ask. They rarely spoke of Mother—hadn’t spoken of her in years, actually. Not since Sibba had sold the house on the north shore. It was like an unspoken pact had been made: they moved forward, and only spoke of the present and the future. Life before Sibba’s move to the south didn’t exist.

He wondered how she would handle losing him. How long it would be, before he became something that was no longer spoken of, eventually something that was no longer remembered.

Eist wasn’t quite ready to tell her what had happened, and Sibba must have sensed it, because she didn’t press or pry, even though he could tell by the worried and wary look in her eye that she knew something was afoot. But as always, she met him with unending patience. He loved her all the more for it—and ached all the more at the realization of how devastating his revelation would be.

His nieces and nephews were excited to see him, and when they were around, he could scarcely spare a thought for his condition. He was constantly engaged and entertained by their antics, their stories and their questions and their tumbling ways.

He thought again of Calanthe, and how she interacted with Zagradd’s daughters, particularly young Eava. With a soft smile, he imagined just how she’d be, if she were here, among his people. The kids would adore her, and no doubt she’d make Peadar and Sibba laugh, too.

And he wondered, yet again, exactly what she’d meant, their last morning in Gors Velen, when she’d pleaded with him to come with her, to meet these mysterious people she knew who could possibly cure him. He knew so little of her life outside their times together, knew nothing of her past aside from her father’s monstrosity, and even then he only knew that her father was a dragon, nothing more. And yet, how was it possible that he could still say, with absolute certainty, that he knew her character, knew her soul?

He would have to leave soon, to return to her. The thought was a mixture of feelings. Delight at the thought of being in her arms once more, made bittersweet by the understanding that the next time they parted ways, it would be on a far more metaphysical level, and further tinged with sorrow at the fact that in order to see her, he would have to make his final farewells to his family.

One morning, when Peadar and the kids had disappeared once more on an adventure, he took a walk with Sibba to the shore. Quietly, he informed her that he would be leaving, on the morrow.

She wrapped her arms around herself, glancing down at the sand beneath their feet.

“Does that mean you’re about to tell me why you came here in the first place?” She asked, voice heavy with dread. “And why you’ve spent the last four days looking at all of us like you’re trying to commit our faces to memory, like you’re never coming ‘round again?”

Of course, she’d known. She’d always known, ever the big sister. He sighed, pushing down the lump in his throat. Tried to think of where to start, and how.

He started with Calanthe. Told his sister about the woman he’d loved for quite some time now, who’d chosen to take on a dangerous commission. Told her about the werewolves, and being bitten. Told her about being ill and recovering again.

“And that’s the point I don’t understand,” he admitted with a soft shake of his head. “Calanthe treated me with wolfsbane, numerous times. I should have been—it shouldn’t have been able to take hold, the infection.”

Sibba shrugged. “Maybe it’s because of your blood. We’re made for transformation, after all.”

He glanced over at his sister as they continued trudging along the shore. “Sirens are creatures of charm, Sibba. Not transformation.”

She looked up at him, confused.

“Mother was a siren,” he pointed out, unsure of what else to say. Of course Sibba knew this. But how could she not know Mother’s powers? He realized that perhaps Sibba didn’t know that much about their mother’s capabilities. He only knew so much about sirens—and about monsters in general, truth be told—because once he was old enough to sail, he’d always found places to stop along his journeys, bookshops and libraries filled with all sorts of writings on the nature of monsters, desperate to learn what little there was to know about his mother.

Sibba blinked a few times, her voice going soft and searching. “Eist…who told you that?”

His body jolted with shock. He took a moment to consider. “Well…everyone knew.”

Sibba stopped walking. He did as well, turning back to her. Gently, she reached for him. “Eist. I know we’ve never really talked about it, but…what…what do you remember, from the day Mother left?”

“I remember her leaving. Being at the shore.” His mind reeled as he tried to remember more—and he felt another ripple of shock at the realization that they truly had never talked about the day she left, never talked about Sibba finding him still frozen on the beach, eyes fixed on the horizon. Even in the days when they had discussed Mother, they’d never really talked _about_ her, not often, not beyond the space of her absence.

“And…before that? You don’t remember anything?”

He tried to remember. Tried to remember the walk to the sea. Had Mother hummed softly, like she usually did when they walked together? Had she held his hand? Had she—

_Hand. She’d held something in her hand, when she’d walked into the water. Something dark and soft._

_Soft._ His brain blinked with another memory _. Digging at the back of the low stone wall that ran around the yard, finding something soft and dark in the soil. So soft that he simply sat there petting the marbled—_

_Fur. Sealskin._

Sibba must have been able to tell the moment he realized, because she let out a soft, slow breath.

“She was a selkie,” Eist said softly, still completely dumbfounded.

Sibba hummed in gentle confirmation. Her hands reached out again, lightly placing on Eist’s upper arms. He reeled under a sudden flood of memories.

_Rushing into the house, excited to show Mother the treasure he’d found. It was so beautiful, so beautiful and soft._

_Mother’s face, when she saw it. The way she wept. The way she kissed the top of his head, so forcefully that it made him squirm._

_Mother bustling around the house with a giddy energy that he’d never seen before. Everything was tidied, there was a soup simmering over the fire, the table set._

_Then she took Eist’s hand and smiled in the kind of sad way that always made him want to cry._

_I love you so much, my little pup, she breathed, smiling so widely that her eyes disappeared into slits. Will you remember that, for me? No matter what, will you remember that I love you so?_

He’d forgotten.

He repeated that last thought aloud. Sibba’s hands squeezed him comfortingly. How had he forgotten?

“You were so young,” she pointed out gently. “There was so much you couldn’t understand—so much I didn’t understand myself, until I was much older.”

“Sibba,” he breathed, his chest tightening. “I…was the one. I found her coat. I gave it back to her.”

“I know,” she returned simply. And when he focused back on her face, he saw no surprise there—she truly did know, and had known for some time, it seemed. With a soft, sad smile (so much like Mother’s, like the last one she’d given him), she admitted, “When I found you on the shore, waiting for Mother—your hands were dirty. I washed them, when we went home. And then Father went to the fence, and saw the hole in the dirt. I…realized what it all meant.”

The air left Eist’s lungs, sharp and quick.

“That doesn’t make any of it your fault,” she informed him quietly. “You were a child. And she…was in an untenable situation. None of what happened was your fault.”

“But…” Eist’s mind was still trying to process and accept this revelation, to understand how the majority of his life had been centered around a lie. “The women in the village. They called her a siren.”

“The women in the village were always bitter, gossiping idiots.”

Valid point, he supposed. Still. “And Father. He said—”

“He…definitely perpetuated the idea that she was a siren, yes,” Sibba admitted softly. “Looking back, I think it was mainly because people would have been less sympathetic, if they’d known the truth.”

Eist blinked at that. His sister quietly explained, “Mother didn’t sing a song and tempt him, Eist. She was a selkie. He captured her and brought her back to shore. Hid her sealskin from her, held her against her will, and had three children on her. How many people would pity a man for such a thing?”

The reality of his mother’s life fully sank in. His heart broke anew.

“No wonder she left without a backward glance,” he said softly, his throat tightening with emotion. “All of this—all of us, we were just reminders of the hell she’d endured—”

“No,” Sibba shook her head fiercely. “No. I think—I think Bran wasn’t by choice, and I think that’s why she never cared for him. But…but Eist, we came along years later. She did try to make it work, you know. Father was never an easy man to love, but I think she tried. I remember them dancing together at the summer festivals, and how they’d softly talk together by the fire, after everyone else was in bed. Maybe I’m a fool for hoping, but I think…I think maybe she tried, and I think maybe there were still some good moments in the midst of such sadness. But when she had her one and only chance of returning to her true form and to her people, she had to take it. And…I don’t blame her. It took me decades to reach that point, but I don’t blame her anymore.”

Eist looked out to the sea again. He wondered who she’d left behind, when Father had stolen her. Perhaps she already had a family, a mate and children. Siblings and parents and friends who loved her and rejoiced at her miraculous return, after sixteen years of being stolen away.

“I guess I don’t blame her, either,” he admitted quietly. And maybe he didn’t blame himself. Maybe that had been part of his destiny—to finally bring his mother joy and peace in ways that he couldn’t understand at the time. When he was younger, he would wonder how he could have prevented her loss, how he could have been a better son. It was hard, realizing that perhaps, she'd actually seen him as that already, had seen his act of returning her lost coat as the most wonderful gift he ever could have given her, even if it meant separating them forever. He swung between various emotions, half the time uncertain of what he felt at all. Should he feel guilty, or glad? Relieved, or regretful? Should he feel everything or nothing at all?

He tried to rearrange the memories of life after Mother's departure, through this new lens of understanding. He wondered if his childhood hope of Mother returning to watch him from a distance had been true in some ways. Had she come back, in her true form, watching him and Sibba? Had she mourned the loss of them, in some way, all while knowing that they could never come to her realm and that she could never fully return to theirs?

“She loved us,” Sibba assured him. “But she also knew that we would survive. And we did.”

Her voice broke a little on that last bit. Eist looked over at his sister, her eyes rimmed with tears and her nose already going a bit red. She really did look so much like Mother.

“We did,” he agreed quietly.

Sibba gingerly pulled him into a hug. They stayed like that for a very long time, holding on to each other in the emotional shipwreck, like they’d done most of their lives, softy swaying to the sound of the tide, pushing and pulling over the shore as always.

Eist’s mind didn’t stop whirring. This revelation changed so much—perhaps everything. His understanding of his parents, his understanding of himself and how he’d been responsible for the entire situation through innocent childish curiosity, his comprehension of his powers—

His powers. He didn’t have the power to charm people.

He shifted slightly, still holding on to Sibba. “I don’t understand. Selkies aren’t creatures of charm, but I’ve always been able to—”

“Eist.” Sibba looked up at him, her face rippling with unvoiced laughter, even as her eyes still shone with tears. “You’re just a charmer. You’ve always been able to charm people—look at your adorable little face, how could you not?”

He rolled his eyes at her big-sisterly tone. It only made her more gleeful.

“It’s true! All the ladies in the market used to coo and swoon over you, even when you were a wee thing.” She tweaked his cheek affectionately. “That sort of thing doesn’t require magical blood. You’ve always been able to look at people and know how to approach them. Lots of normal, non-halfbreeds can do that.”

He blinked, thinking back to all the times he’d tried to use his charm to soothe. He’d always been convinced that people had to willingly accept them—and they did. There just wasn’t any magic involved, as he’d always assumed.

 _Calanthe_. His heart skidded and slammed into overdrive at the thought. He’d spent the last week convincing himself that she’d only fallen so desperately in love with him because of his charms. Assumed that while she had willingly accepted those advances, she had still been charmed nonetheless.

But no. Every action she'd taken, every emotion she'd felt had been entirely her own. She'd loved him before Velhad, had wanted him for far longer—not because of enchantment or some magical pull at her senses.

No. Quite simply, she loved him. Had loved him, purely on the merit of himself.

His mind flashed again with moments from their last two days together—the look in her eyes that night in the woods, the careful concern in them the night they climbed into bed at Gors Velen, the shining hope the next morning in that same bed, the bereft heartache radiating from them on the docks.

All of it was entirely genuine. She loved him, deeply and desperately and entirely of her own choice. Nothing she had done had been out of anything but pure love.

She wasn't like his father, lured into loving a siren, tricked into giving her heart away against her will. She wasn't like his father at all—because when given the chance to truly use her power, when given a chance to control Eist and keep him with her, she'd chosen to let him go, to let him choose his own path. Because she loved him, truly loved him. Deeper than he'd ever known, until now.

His heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

And with the sudden leap came another jolt of realization: perhaps this had been the end of self that Vanielle had actually predicted. Everything he thought he knew—everything he’d based his entire life around—was false, fallen to pieces under the weight of this sudden truth. The self he knew, the self he’d built, didn’t exist. It ended.

And if _this_ was the foretold end of self, then it meant that his physical end wasn’t fated—at least not like this. It meant there truly was hope. It meant that Calanthe and her overpowering sense of love and devotion ( _true_ love, true devotion, borne sheerly out of her own feelings for him, not because of anything he’d done to command or control her, not even in the slightest) just might well be able to break the curse, to overcome this current condition.

He thought again of the words Vanielle had spoken, over a month ago, half-hazed by time and distance. She’d spoken of destiny and water, how it could change paths and be affected by choices.

Everything she’d said had come to pass. Nothing else was truly fated, he realized. Everything else could be changed. And if anyone could change it, it was his woman of chaos and fury, with her brilliant mind and her determined ways.

 _His_. Calanthe truly was his, he realized. And entirely by her own free will. Just as he was hers—just as he chose, in this moment, to truly allow himself to return to her, in more ways than one.

He suddenly wanted to weep in pure joy.

“I have to go back. I have to find Calanthe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have officially ended part one of this story. Part two won't be nearly as long, fyi. But now we're about to learn Calanthe's story.  
> Thank you to everyone who's made it this far. The journey is always better with friends and companions, and you're all the very best a gal could wish for <3


	22. Part Two: The Dragon's Daughter

**Hochebuz Castle (in the southern wilderness), Cintra.**

She was six, the first time she heard the voice. It sounded like water, rippling and deep. Sounded scary and ssssssslithery, made prickles down her spine.

“Hhhhhharbingerrrrrr,” it rumbled and rasped. Calanthe’s tummy felt heavy and tight at the sound.

Her feet stopped moving. She wanted to run, but she couldn’t. The voice seemed to come from everywhere at once—she didn’t know which direction was _away_ , which was desperately where she wanted to be. Away from here, from it, from the icky feeling on her skin.

“Harbinger,” it spat again, as if angry at her. She clenched her tiny hands into fists. Her breathing was quick and fast, like a sick cat's. Her eyes felt jittery and she suddenly wanted to cry, even though she didn’t really know why.

Something rippled behind her. Even if she wasn’t frozen with fear, she wouldn’t have dared turn around to look.

A gust of hot air pushed against her back.

“You are still too young,” it growled, as if that were her fault. It paused, as if considering. Then spoke again. “One day, you will become the harbinger, creation of mine. You will open like a floodgate and bring destruction and chaos to the earth.”

She still couldn’t speak, but her head shook in disagreement without any effort at all. _No, no I won’t_ , she thought _. I am good, I will be good_.

The voice gave an ugly laugh, as if it could hear her thoughts.

“You have no choice, little one. This is your destiny. You cannot escape. Sssssshall I show you the path you will tread?”

Again, she shook her head, this time even more vehemently. Her teeth hurt from clenching so tightly.

It showed her anyways.

She was still rooted to the same spot, whenever her nursemaid found her, unblinking eyes fixed in horror on a blank spot on the wall.

She was still screaming, too. And she did not stop for a long time after.


	23. Returns, Redux, and Revelations

**Thirty-Seven Years Later.**

**Nastrog, Verden.**

Calanthe knew she must truly be in a pitiful state. Shrike wouldn’t even fight her, a sure sign of how far she’d fallen.

However, she was still not beneath the woman’s harping.

“Can you not, Lioness?” Shrike gave a distasteful grimace before taking a long swig of beer. “You keep pushing your saddened charm out into the world and it’s ruining everyone’s mood.”

“Oh.” Calanthe said simply. But she didn’t stop. Shrike, of course, noticed, and gave her a flat, baleful look. But she wisely didn’t press further.

Again, a sure sign of how pitiful Calanthe must currently be.

She knew that people were talking. Half of the hunters here had seen her and the Hound leave together on their latest commission—but only the Lioness had returned, little more than a moping mess. She knew that the others were whispering, and that most of them assumed the Hound was dead.

What worried Calanthe most of all was the fact that she couldn’t guarantee those assumptions were false.

Eist had promised, she reminded herself. He would return. She had to keep her own promise and wait as patiently as she could. She’d failed him so many times—in fact, her failures were the reason all of this had happened in the first place. She needed to prove herself now.

At the thought, she pushed out with her charm again. When he came back, she wanted him to feel it, to feel her. To know she was here, long before he saw her. She wanted to be his beacon, guiding him home.

 _Home_. A bit audacious, considering herself to be his home, but it was in her nature to be audacious and possessive, wasn't it? She wanted him back, back with her, back in her clutches, added to her heart's treasures and safe for all time.

The night before they’d entered Velhad, she’d told Eist that she was considering retirement. Now, she knew that as soon as he was cured, she wanted to spend the rest of her life keeping him safe. She wanted them both to retire, to find a quieter life and spend the rest of it together.

And they would, she decided with a curt nod. They just had to survive this bit first. She just had to find a cure, and prove that she was worthy of spending the rest of her life by his side, prove that she could clean up the messes she made, that she could truly be trusted with the invaluable honor of holding his heart, for now and always.

If he let her, her mind whispered, a bit fearfully. If he hadn’t taken the time away to realize just how much chaos she created, without any effort at all. If he hadn’t noticed the stunt she’d pulled, their last morning in Gors Velen—if he hadn’t realized just how like her father she truly was, just how cruel and manipulative and controlling she could be.

She rubbed her fingertips against her chin, loathe to revisit the memory and yet unable to stop her brain from picking at the scab nonetheless. Before Velhad, she’d been convinced that she could command people to her will. Eist had explained that she couldn’t, not fully, not without their acceptance and consent. And she’d believed him—but she should have known that her nature was stronger than most, that she had the doubled cursed of a monstrous sire and a mother who was wickedly strong-willed as well.

Then, their last morning together, she’d been so overwhelmed, so desperate to change his mind—she’d actually tried to change it. She’d summoned all her charm and commanded him. Her thighs still remembered the feeling of him, the sudden languidness of his body beneath her, obeying the command she’d pushed into his mind. Her heart still ached at the realization of what she’d done. Eist had given her honesty and trust, and what had she responded with? Manipulation.

 _I didn’t know_ , she reminded herself. _I didn’t know that I could truly do it—and now that I do, I won’t do it again. I’ll make amends. I’ll make it right, as soon as I can._

Just one more apology, on the long list of sins for which she had to beg forgiveness from him. But it didn’t matter—she’d say anything, beg and plead for anything, if it meant he’d come back and stay. Just like with his illness in Velhad, she found that his absence now made her forgo all pride and ego (a rare feat indeed).

It had been nearly two weeks, since he’d left her at the docks in Gors Velen. She’d taken his horse with her, all the way back to Verden, and she’d taken up residence at the Ferryman’s Tavern, knowing it would be the first place he’d look for her, once he returned.

Nearly two weeks. She slowly closed her eyes against the thought. It had been pure hell, the aching absence of him, the endless wondering of where he was, what he was doing, who he was with, at every moment of the day. Waking every morning to an empty bed and skin so hot that the sheets stuck to her (how had she survived, before he’d come along, before his hands were around to soothe her and comfort her in ways that no one else ever could?). Falling asleep every night with a dull pang in her chest as she tried to imagine the feeling of him holding her once more, kissing her shoulder or the back of her neck before tumbling into slumber. Hours upon hours thinking of him, wishing and wanting and waiting and wondering.

Maybe he wasn’t coming back. Maybe an accident had befallen him at sea. Maybe he’d come to his senses, realized how simple his life was, without her billowing and bellowing about, wreaking havoc at every turn. Maybe he’d returned home and ran into an old flame, and, in the kind of impulse that always comes from people believing their days to be numbered, fell into a whirlwind romance. Maybe he was enjoying peaceful walks upon the beach, holding another woman’s hand, feeling at-ease and calm in ways that she could never give to him.

No. Eist wasn’t that sort of man, regardless of how fantastical his current circumstances were. He’d given his word, and he was good, he was kind and he was noble to a fault. He’d keep his word.

She thought of the way he’d held her hand, as they’d walked along the docks. Frowned softly as she ran her thumb over the back of her hand, as if it had suddenly become some holy relic, some site of a great miracle.

It was, in a way, she supposed. Just like every other part of her that Eist had touched, both physically and emotionally. No one had ever loved her in the way that he did, ever before. And before him, she’d assumed that no one ever could.

She wanted to weep, yet again. Wanted to feel miraculous again. Wanted to feel him, to feel—

The air stirred and shifted throughout the tavern. She turned to see the door closing again, to see the entire room shifting in soft surprise at the man standing there, scanning the room for her.

 _Eist_.

He saw her. She rose to her feet, pushing away from the bar as a tightness rose in her throat. She wanted to run to him, but her feet were like stones, rooted to the floor. Her entire body trembled under the weight of so many competing emotions as he moved swiftly through the crowd, most of whom regarded him with confusion and curiosity.

Her breath caught, causing a sharp pang in her throat. She felt the corners of her mouth twitch and shake as she simply waited, her heart flooding with joy as her eyes swelled with tears.

He was finally here. Finally back with her. His eyes were shining, too, his face a bit flushed, as if he’d run the entire way here, straight from the ship.

She tried to make herself smile. Her voice was barely a whisper, practically lost in the noise of the room.

“Hullo, Hound.” She pushed down another wave of tears and tried to tease, tried to recreate the last time they’d met here. “I see they haven’t burned you at the stake yet.”

She watched his expression contort in soft amusement at the memory. He smiled and played along, repeating his response, “Not for lack of trying.”

A sob erupted from her chest, but she quickly suppressed it, making it seem a bit more like a laugh as she ducked her head. Her body still quivered, still too overwhelmed with nerves and relief.

He moved closer, dipping his head so that only she could hear him. “Get me out of this room, so that I can properly say hello, before I lose all self-control and ruin your reputation in front of everyone here.”

Her grin deepened. Yes, he was here, and entirely himself. She simply reached out and took his hand, leading him up the stairs to her room.

She felt his ripple of hesitation at the blatant action. It only made her grin all the more.

Let them talk, she thought. She didn’t give a damn. She looked over her shoulder at him, giving another smile of reassurance. He smiled back, a bit breathlessly.

Miraculous, she thought a bit dazedly. It all suddenly felt so miraculous again.

* * *

Eist felt a pang of nostalgia as Calanthe propped her ax up against the door—almost exactly as she had done two months ago, except now everything was entirely different.

He had so much to tell her. So much to explain, to share, to give. But she slowly turned to face him and he could think of nothing but those big brown eyes, locked on to him with such soft, sweet affection.

She reached out to him, and he gladly closed the distance between them, wrapping her into his arms and nearly weeping in relief at the heavy reassurance of her body against his. She kissed her way up his neck, giving a small, needy noise when their mouths finally met—he grabbed her hips and hauled her farther into him, deepening the kiss.

He felt her teeth against his bottom lip, the tightening of her fingers in his hair—every little nuance of just how much she’d missed him, how much she still loved him. His heart sang with delight anew—because now he knew that none of this was caused by his non-existent charms. It was simply her, simply wanting him.

And oh, how he wanted her in return. His hands slipped under the hem of her shirt, appreciating the curve of her waist—she pulled back slightly, and he stopped, watching her with careful eyes.

“I want….” She trailed off, her gaze falling softly to his mouth again. Her voice was already raspy and heavy with desire, and he could feel the way she began to rattle again in his arms. Her hand came up, fingertips lightly tracing the line of his bottom lip as she shakily confessed, “I want to…take time. To just…be, with you, again.”

He simply nodded, more than willing to give her anything she wanted. He let her guide him to the bed, sitting on the edge as she came to stand between his knees.

She smiled softly, blushing and dipping her head, almost as if embarrassed. Then she looked up at him again, eyes dancing as her fingertips lightly traced the details of his face, as if remapping every line and curve.

He watched in soft wonder, watched the emotions ripple across her expressive face, watched the way her gaze shifted as she gave her attention to different details. She truly was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, he thought. That little line at the corner of her mouth was on full display and he ached to kiss it—so he gently reached up, cupping the sides of her neck and bringing her closer so that he could do just that.

She shivered and let out a long, low sigh at the contact.

“Gods, I’ve missed you,” he breathed, before he could even truly realize he was saying it aloud. She made another soft, aching sound, and he understood the agreement in it. She shifted slightly, bringing their noses together.

“Never leave me again,” she pleaded, voice barely a whisper as she gently bumped her forehead against his.

And now, he could fully promise, “Never.”

He sealed it with a kiss. Her hands came up again, lightly stroking through his hair. He could feel her savoring it, the lazy way she pushed her tongue past his teeth, the slow pull of her breathing and the slight shift as she moved forward, pressing deeper into him.

He felt her neck radiate with heat against his palms, and he wanted to laugh in joy and delight. She felt his smile through the kiss and gave an amused hum.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to push his shoulders, guiding him to lay back on the bed before climbing up to straddle his hips, smiling down at him with glowing cheeks and simmering eyes.

“Can we take our time and also take our clothes off?” He asked, cocking his head to one side in feigned curiosity as his hands gave her hips an appreciative squeeze.

She grinned, her own hands coming to the laces of her doublet, slowly untying them. She watched him with a sense of shining-eyed mischief that made him want to laugh—she really was too much, and he’d been too long without her.

He squeezed her hips again and gladly watched her teasingly remove her doublet and shirt completely. Then she leaned in, planting her hands on either side of his shoulders and warmly decreeing, “I’ll let you handle your favorite part.”

Calanthe felt another burble of soft delight at the way he smiled in response, his hands easily finding the end of the linen strip that bound her breasts and slowly unwrapping it. He looked so pleased, so relaxed and quietly joyful—it was as if their last day in Temeria had been a bad dream, as if nothing bad had ever occurred between them at all.

She had so many questions, so many things to tell him in turn. But it could all wait, she decided. Right now, she wanted to focus only on them, being together. She wanted to hold on to this moment, this feeling, for as long as possible. She’d spent nearly two weeks wondering if she’d ever truly see him again, if she’d ever get to have him like this, to see him so beautifully happy and at-ease—she wanted to savor it, before returning to the work ahead, before returning to the reality of their lives.

He finished, tossing aside the linen carelessly as his hands came back to her ribcage, pulling her farther up so that he could nip and suck at her breasts. She couldn’t help the quick, breathless laugh that came at the feeling, at the absolute joy that his touches brought. She tried to kiss the top of his head, to touch him as much as possible in return without disturbing his efforts.

Eist hummed in delight at the flush of heat he felt radiating from her skin, the soft exhale she gave when he took her nipple between his teeth. He stroked his hands down her sides again, pushing coolness into his palms and relishing the sound she made in response.

His hands followed the line of her body, over the swell of her still-clothed ass, grabbing with just enough force to make her moan and push back into his grip. She dipped her head again, brushing her lips against his temple encouragingly as she huffed and twittered.

He replayed the sight of her, when he’d first entered the tavern tonight. The way she’d trembled and glowed, like she was actually radiating with joy at his appearance. It was the purest, sweetest thing he’d ever seen—and it was directed at him, only him. Because she loved him, so deeply and so desperately—because she chose to.

Blindly, his hands fumbled at the front of her breeches, eventually untying them while still kissing and nipping at her breasts. She shifted, angling slightly so that his hand could slip into her pants. His entire body tightened at feeling just how wet she already was, just how much she wanted him.

Just like the last time they were here, he thought softly. She had already loved him, even then, he realized—just as he’d already loved her, too.

He wondered how long it had truly been love, how long they’d been too foolish, too blind, too caught up in their monstrous abilities to believe it could be anything other than merely their natures at play.

“Please,” she said simply, leaning down to wing a kiss across his forehead again. He understood, sliding further through slick heat to push into her cunt. She huffed and he felt her tighten around his fingers. She was shifting again, moving so that their noses were even, so that she could lock her eyes on to his as she quietly repeated, “Please.”

He gladly fulfilled her request, slowly starting a rhythm with his hand as he stared back up into her impossibly dark eyes, which were absolutely burning with longing. Her mouth was open and she was all but panting, her body still trembling—she was so absolutely soft, and yet the most overpowering thing he’d ever seen. She began rocking with the movement of his hand, eyelids fluttering briefly before latching her gaze back onto his completely. She put all of her weight into her left hand, letting her right slip over his chest is reassuring circles, slipping up to following the line of his neck before coming back down to his shoulder, fingertips biting just enough to encourage. And through it all, she kept her eyes on his.

It was like she feared blinking, feared taking her gaze off of him for a single second, lest he disappear again. His throat tightened at the thought and he heard his own voice quietly reassuring her, “I’m here. I’m here and I’m not going away again.”

She gave a skittering little sob at that, and the tears in her eyes made his own well up, too. She pushed down into a kiss, searing his mind with a flash of desire and delight. Then she pulled his hand from between her thighs, shifting back further to shakily unbutton his doublet.

“Still far too many clothes between us,” she announced. He merely hummed in agreement. He watched her in warm delight, taking a beat to take his fingers in his mouth, the taste of her blossoming across his tongue—she paused, her own mouth falling open softly as she watched him. Her skin flushed again and he wanted to laugh, wanted to shout his thanks to every star in the heavens for aligning in such a way that allowed him to be in this moment with this woman, for every moment before and every moment after that they may share. _Would_ share, his mind corrected. They would have more moments, more of this, more of each other, because they'd chosen to—and just as he'd declared after Velhad, he truly believed there was nothing that could stand against them, together. He'd forgotten that certainty, after his transformation, but after learning the truth of his maternity and the truth of their connection, his surety had returned full-force. Perhaps it was tinged with an air of penance for ever doubting, but now he threw himself whole-heartedly into believing. He loved her. She loved him. They'd chosen each other, and they would choose their own destiny as well.

Calanthe leaned in again, feeling her body pull like a magnet back to his. Eist was watching her with such shining adoration and curiosity—even as her gaze moved to his mouth, she could feel his eyes still on her face, still watching her in rapt fascination. He’d always made her want to drown, in some way, and this was no exception. She sank down, bringing her mouth back to his, diving in deeper with her tongue and welcoming the whirlpool that pulled her further in, praying she’d never come up for air, ever again.

Still, she continued the kiss and shifted farther down, settling her hips more solidly against his and rolling against his cock, pulling a small moan from his lungs that pushed straight into hers. He grabbed her hips, encouraging her to continue. She sat up, just enough to watch him as she swiveled and pushed into him again, slipping her hands under the hem of his shirt to gratefully press up to his skin, relishing the feel of him as much as possible. His reaction was beautiful and heady, as always. She wanted nothing more than to be dragged farther down into those ocean eyes, to let him pull and tumble her deeper into everything between them.

Eist felt a bit trapped, watching Calanthe watch his reaction with heavy-lidded delight—she wasn’t using her charm to control him, yet he felt just as helpless to do anything but stare back at the burning woman above him. She slid farther back, glancing up at him every few seconds as she finished the last of his doublet's buttons, breathless and pleased with her efforts so far (as she should be, he thought—they were certainly pleasing).

Then she was on the move again (as ever, his little hurricane), rising to her feet and pulling his wrists to make him sit up as well. She made quick work of his doublet and undershirt before focusing on her own remaining clothes, removing her boots and breeches while he did the same. She rose to her full height again and took a small, deep breath that made him grin—how had he ever been so lucky, to be so loved by her?

 _Finally_ , Calanthe’s heart breathed, once Eist’s hands came to her bare hips and pulled her close. She suddenly wanted to cry again. His arms were wrapping around her, solid and reassuring and real, and it was all too much and not nearly enough. He pulled her back onto the bed, back on top of him, wearing the same soft, sweet smile that absolutely melted her lungs and robbed her mind of all coherent thought ( _drown me, just let me drown like this—I don’t need anything else but the certainty of you and that smile_ ).

With a soft sigh, he pulled her closer still, diving against her collarbone and biting and kissing his way up her neck. His fingers flexed happily into her skin and she felt as if she may combust at the simple reassurance that he’d missed her just as deeply as she’d missed him.

She arched back, feeling his cock against her center and shivering at the contact. His hands anchored at her hips and she paused, taking a beat to look into his eyes.

“Command me,” he said, a bit breathlessly. She blinked at the request, and he clarified, his voice still soft and adoring. “Like you did, the morning in Gors Velen. Command me.”

Her heart skittered in a mixture of desire and unease. So he had noticed, then. She hadn’t imagined it—she truly had commanded him, in that moment. She wanted to rush into an apology, to swear she’d never do it again—and yet, she couldn’t. He was looking up at her with such sweetness, completely trapping her in the softness.

“I trust you,” he said simply, and his blue eyes shone with the certainty of his words.

Her throat slammed shut with emotion. Gods above, had she ever truly wanted anything more in her life than his deep and unbridled trust?

She also understood what this moment truly meant—his trust went beyond the realm of physical passion. He was declaring his trust in her abilities to save him, to find a cure, to keep them both alive and well, his trust that even if given complete control, she’d never do anything to hurt him, even in the slightest.

Calanthe took another shaking breath, as if fighting back tears. Eist’s heart only melted further at the sight—how could he not love her? How could he not absolutely trust this sweet and loving thing? How could he have ever doubted that this wasn’t good, wasn’t pure, wasn’t right?

He pressed his hands into her hips again and prompted, “Command me.”

“You’re sure?” She asked quietly, eyes wide enough to swallow the whole world.

“I’m sure.” His heart clenched again. This creature of fire and fury could be so concerned and caring—again, how had he forgotten this? How had he not remembered, even for a moment, how love made her soft and kind?

He had forgotten, but now he remembered—and he promised himself that he’d spend his life remembering it, again and again.

She shifted back a bit more, bracing her hands on his chest and taking a long, slow breath as she stared deeply into his eyes.

He could already feel the shift in the air, the sensation of some great and growing thing, rising and pulling itself into power. There was a sense of coiling, of slick scales sliding over each other, a held breath before a strike, an almost perceptible hissing of some unseen creature, slowly unfurling its true form.

It was a dragon, opening its wings, Eist thought dazedly. That moment just before chaos and fire, when the world held its breath and tried to hold on.

But she still watched him with such careful eyes, still let the corners of her mouth (oh that little line, how it highlighted the slightest twitch of her lips, how he loved it so) curl into the softest, most hesitant of smiles.

 _Take me_ , her voice breathed through his mind, and he could almost literally feel the gust of heat rippling across his brain, the rasp and crackle swirling into his veins and surging life into every fiber of his being.

He wanted to laugh with reckless delight. He’d trusted her, of course he did—and of course, when given absolute power, all she’d done was use it to give him control and choice. And he wholeheartedly chose to follow the command.

He pulled her hips into place, holding her firmly and bringing her down on top of him, pushing inside her without preamble. She gasped and flexed her fingers into his chest, shuddering at the sudden fullness.

Calanthe might have been the one on top, but she certainly had no doubts about who was actually directing their coupling. Eist’s hands slipped around to grip her arse, lifting and pushing her back into him again, controlling the depth and rhythm. She simply followed along, staring down at him in absolute fascination.

He’d begged her to use her charms on him. And in return, she’d chosen a command that gave him as much freedom as possible, that re-balanced things, in a way. Still, she found herself quietly asking, “Are you—is this—alright?”

He started laughing, even though he never stopped pushing and pulling her. She felt a ripple of relief at his reaction. Through heavy breaths, he admitted, “ _More_ than alright, love. Much more.”

She gave a soft, breathless chuckle, too, quite agreeing with the sentiment. She pushed her hips a bit more, trying to see how far the command went, how well it held—he gave a slight growl and her chest fluttered with delight.

Never one to leave a stone unturned—much less a challenge unaccepted—she grabbed his wrists, pinning them to the mattress and taking over the rhythm herself. His body immediately tensed and strained beneath her, and she felt a flash of feral want, coupled with absolute fascination for what was happening.

He was grinning at her, shaking his head in slight frustration—he’d guessed the motives for her antics, she could tell, and she couldn’t help but grin in return.

She truly was the most wicked thing, Eist though adoringly. Yes, she was sweet and considerate and the softest thing he’d ever seen—but she was just as much this, too. Rebellious and taunting and utterly, wonderfully wicked. She was rolling her hips steadily now, gripping his wrists so tightly that his fingers ached from lack of circulation as she looked down her nose at him, imperious as ever, challenging him to try and overcome her. In a flash of amusement, he realized that she was literally picking a fight with her own self—after all, it was her command that he was following, and now she was trying to see if she could get him to break it, through her own force of will.

But it wasn’t entirely some magical charm that compelled him, no. He realized that he could overcome the push of her power onto his mind, if he truly wanted to—but in this moment, all he wanted was to fulfill her command, to the fullest.

Calanthe saw the sudden determination in his features, and her stomach flipped in anticipation. Before she could truly prepare, Eist was breaking out of her grip on his wrists, lifting her hips and rolling them both across the mattress. He had her face down, parting her thighs and grabbing her hips with a sudden possessiveness that had her all but screaming in anticipation. Then he was pushing inside her again, making her body shudder and clench at the mere sensation of truly being taken. He shifted, moving to plant his hands on either side of her shoulders as he pressed her farther into the mattress with every push of his hips. The feeling of him inside her, of his body moving above her, of her own body being pounded farther into the sheets as he continued—it all swirled through her veins with a dizzying headiness, and she found her legs opening wider, desperate for more.

Eist was dipping his head forward, breathing heavily in her ear and sending more shivers down her spine as he huskily reminded her, “This is what you wanted.”

“Yes,” she agreed wholeheartedly, arching her hips further into him. “Exactly this.”

He gave another growl as he began moving harder and faster. She pressed her face into the mattress, tears stinging her eyes again—how long had it been, since they’d been this reckless, this passionate and overwhelmed? Since before leaving Velhad? Weeks now? _Weeks_ , since they’d been able to devolve so completely, weeks since they’d felt free enough to truly fall apart.

It was a sign of things to come, she decided hazily. They’d found this again; they’d find all the peace and happiness that came along with it.

Her body slammed into an orgasm, twittering and clenching in agreement. Eist kept going, and soon, she was calling out again, burying her face in the bedclothes to muffle the sounds. Then he was ramming into her one last time, sending sparks through her veins and flashes of white behind her eyes at the feeling of him coming inside her and the sound of the long, low moan he gave in response.

He stayed there, just a beat, as if frozen in place. Then, hoarsely, he quietly admitted, “I have missed this.”

She hummed in agreement, throat far too dry and tight to attempt actual speech. She gave one last shudder as he withdrew, her body suddenly going languid. Eist gave her arse a quick, soft little smack, and she didn’t have to look back to know he watched it jiggle with a pleased smirk. She lightly lifted her foot, bumping her heel against his back.

He stayed seated between her legs, his hands running up the sides of her hips in a slow, steady rhythm. A peaceful silence reigned.

“How did it feel?” She finally asked, breaking the quiet.

“Divine, as always,” he returned. His right hand slid up over the curve of her arse, planting firmly on the small of her back and pushing a cooling sensation against her already-sweaty skin.

She hummed. “I meant being commanded.”

It wasn’t as if she didn’t know, honestly. But…maybe it had been different, for him. Because she was different. Because their connection was different. Because she gave a command he actually wanted to fulfill.

“Interesting,” he said, after a beat. She could tell by his voice that he was genuinely trying to consider the question and answer it as fully and honestly as possible. “A bit…I don’t know. My body obeyed completely, but my mind…still had the ability to overrule it, if I’d truly wanted to.”

Now she shifted, propping herself up on her elbows to look over her shoulder at him (gods above, he really was the most wonderful, most delicious sight). Quietly, she informed him, “You know…you know I’d never command you—not unless you asked me to. And even then, I’d never make you do anything that I didn’t already know you would want to do, entirely of your own free will.”

She swallowed the tightness in her throat. “In Gors Velen—I didn’t, I didn’t ask, and I’m sorry. I didn’t…know I could actually command anyone so completely. And I’m sorry—I’m sorry that I used it like that, in that moment in particular—and that I asked for something you couldn’t truly give.”

Eist felt a bit dumbfounded, watching the hurt and sorrow flood those big brown eyes as she apologized for her faults and made promises which implied that perhaps, once upon a time, someone had not given her the same courtesy of only commanding her to do things she wanted.

He reached up, lightly rubbing the swell of her ass in a comforting gesture. “I’d forgive you, if there was something to truly forgive. I know—I didn’t give you proper warning, didn’t give you enough time to adjust, didn’t have enough time to truly reassure you. But…thank you. I know, and I’ve already known for a long time now, that you’d never do such a thing. And I love you all the more for all the ways you assure me of that.”

She smiled softly at that, blinking back tears. He slid off the bed, rising to his feet and offering her a hand. “Come. Let me hold you.”

She easily obeyed, and they slipped beneath the covers, curling up in each other’s arms.

It was time, Eist decided, as his hand lazily stroked down her spine. Time to truly focus on the matter at hand, the thing they hadn’t spoken of all evening, the thing that still hung over their heads.

“So,” he began.

“So.” Calanthe echoed, placing a soft kiss on his chest. She sensed it, he knew.

“Has that brilliant brain of yours already figured out a cure?” He edged his tone with a hint of teasing. And it worked—she gave a light hum of amusement at the question.

“Truth be told, I’ve spent every waking moment simply waiting for you to return.” She tightened her grip around him, nuzzling further under his chin. “But…I meant what I said. I do know people who will have answers. We’ll leave for Temeria in the morning—”

“Temeria?” He felt a wash of surprise.

She hummed.

“You despise Temeria,” he pointed out.

Now she shifted back, just enough to make eye contact. She was smirking. “It’s called hiding in plain sight, Eist. If anyone were asked to guess where I lived, where would the very last place on their mind be?”

“Temeria,” he answered, with absolute certainty. Because gods above, over the years she’d made her disdain for the country quite clear. He’d teased her about it, quite often.

She made a small noise of agreement.

“You really are brilliant,” he announced, yet again. He felt her smile against his chest as she snuggled back into him, obviously pleased.

Gods above, he couldn’t stop the delight rippling through his veins. He had a surprise of his own to reveal, and he felt a giddiness at just how it might be received.

“Well.” He shifted, placing a quick kiss atop her forehead. “There is an interesting thing you should know—something that might affect our attempts at finding a cure. I am not half-siren.”

Calanthe blinked, pulling back again to fully look at him. “Of course you are. I mean….”

She gave a helpless flop of her hand in his direction. Eist actually felt his cheeks twinge from trying not to smile. Her absolute disbelief was a bit telling, and she’d probably regret it, in a moment. But it was nice to savor the look on her face for now.

“Nope." He shook his head softly. “My mother was a selkie, so I’ve learned. I never had the power to charm.”

“But…” She was blinking again, but this time rapidly and many times. “But, from the moment we met, I felt….”

The pin dropped. Her cheeks flushed.

Eist shouldn’t be as delighted as he was, but he couldn’t fucking help himself. “Yes, tell me, dear, what did you feel?”

She spatted him on the shoulder. “Stop _enjoying_ this.”

“I’m afraid that’s one command I cannot fulfill, my love,” he informed her in mock seriousness. He pulled her into him again. “But please—do tell me, what did you feel, from the moment we met?”

His entire body rippled at the feeling of her bare chest growing hot against his.

“I….” She trailed off, still looking at him in a mixture of shock and disbelief. “I…I don’t understand.”

“I think you do,” he teased. He kissed the tip of her nose, making her blink again in adorable surprise. “Because I can assure you, it’s probably very, _very_ similar to what I felt, the moment we met.”

“No,” she breathed.

“Yes,” he returned.

Calanthe’s brain was still absolutely spinning as it tried to comprehend everything she’d ever known about their connection. Eist was smiling at her in such warm delight—he was teasing, a bit, but he was also telling the truth.

“The moment I saw you, I found you insanely attractive,” he admitted softly, his tone growing warm with nostalgia. “And even though it took us years to become something more—I knew, even before we fell into bed together for the very first time, that I loved you. I just…assumed that you couldn’t possibly feel the same. Then, when you told me that you thought it was just our natures at play, it made me wonder if perhaps the love you later confessed was…grounded in the pull of my charm. That perhaps it originated from outside of yourself. But then….”

He trailed off, simply watching her with such syrupy-sweet softness that her heart skipped a beat.

“But then?” She prompted.

“After the last full moon.” His voice went softer still—but this time, it was pained, almost as if he were afraid of hurting her again with the memories. “You were…so devoted, I thought I truly had tricked you into loving me, somehow. You used your charm to command me, and I thought—maybe my powers were deeper than I’d realized, too, and maybe I’d used them on you, to make you love me.”

Eist’s heart nearly broke at the way her eyes widened and her head shook, small and fast and so absolutely adamant in denying such a thing.

“No,” she breathed. “No, it was never—”

“I know. Now, at least.” He gave her a slight squeeze of reassurance. “When I went back to An Skellig, I spent time with my sister. I…remembered things about my childhood that I’d forgotten, for some reason. I realized that my mother wasn’t a siren—she was a selkie. I’ve never been able to soothe or charm, at least not with the help of magical blood.”

And even though she’d understood the implications when he first announced it, Calanthe felt another ripple of shock. He’d never been able to affect her with his charm. Which meant everything she’d ever felt towards him had been utterly genuine, had simply been the way _she_ reacted to _him_. The way they would have reacted to each other, if they’d simply been humans, no charms or abilities at play.

Slowly, she spoke, “So…everything….”

“Everything,” Eist repeated, with a slight nod.

“Everything between us was…just us?” She raised her eyebrows, filling with a sudden sense of giddy joy.

“Just us,” he echoed again, his own eyes dancing with the same sense of delight building in her veins. “Not our natures or our abilities or some biological trick—just us, our true selves, seeing each other for who we are and…loving what we saw.”

She made a soft little noise of awe at the thought. “But, Eist, even from the beginning, I felt….”

“I know. So did I.”

“And there were times when…when it was so overwhelming, I thought—I truly thought you were going to drive me insane.”

He chuckled at that, kissing the space between her brows and humming. “Yes, I feel that sometimes, too.”

“But it’s just…love.” She looked back up at him with such shining, hopeful eyes, it made his heart stutter in surprise.

Still, he swallowed the lump in his throat and agreed, “It’s just love.”

She made another soft, almost-sobbing noise, wrapping him up in a kiss. Her teeth pressed into his bottom lip and he found himself shaking with laughter, tumbling further into joy to feel her giggling in his arms as well, kissing him again and again with a delighted fervor. It was as if they’d discovered the answer to the entire Universe, here, together, just the two of them.

“Then I have loved you for far longer than I knew,” she admitted, once their lips parted. Her hand lazily stroked through his hair, comforting and content.

“As have I,” he assured her. She smiled again, pressing another quick, hard kiss against his lips. She pulled back, simply watching him with a pleased expression. She absolutely glowed, and he absolutely adored her.

With a quick blink, Calanthe realized, “This does change everything. You’re a creature of transformation—no wonder you healed so quickly. I don’t think—with your blood, we may never have had a chance at stopping the infection, even from the beginning.”

“Aye,” he agreed thickly.

“Still.” Calanthe held him a bit tighter. “That doesn’t mean—well, once the curse is set, the treatment shouldn’t be too different, across the board. Just because we couldn’t prevent infection doesn’t mean we can’t actually cure it.”

He merely nodded. Gods above, how he hoped that she was right.

“I will find a cure,” she promised him, cupping the side of his face.

“I know,” he said simply. “I trust you.”

Her eyes welled with tears again and she pulled him in for another fierce kiss.

“Try to charm me,” she prompted, eyes suddenly dancing with mischief.

“Cal, we literally just had a whole discussion about how I actually can’t—”

“Oh, but you can,” she assured him. “Just…without magical aid. You’ve done it before, Eist. Just…try again.”

He sat up slightly, fully aware that a new game was afoot and more than willing to play. She wriggled onto her back, looking up at him with such delighted expectancy.

“Pretend we’ve never slept together. Pretend you want me, more than anything—”

“No pretense needed for that,” he assured her.

She grinned. Then arched her brow. “See? You can be quite charming, when you want to. So…charm me.”

What she really meant was _seduce me_ , he knew. And he also understood why she wanted such a thing now—she wanted to remember all the times she’d felt charmed by him before, to look back upon them with new understanding and fresh eyes, to relish the realization that their connection had always run deeper and longer than either of them had been able to recognize at the time.

Eist merely smiled down at her, and Calanthe’s chest immediately tightened as her skin flushed in familiar response.

She’d never been immune to his smile, she realized. Never. She’d always assumed that it was his nature at work—but now, she knew that such nature had never existed.

“Excuse me, miss.” His tone dipped low, filled with feigned concern. “You seem to be without any clothing.”

“So I am.” She feigned surprise as well. “Seems you are, too.”

“Hmm. What an interesting coincidence.”

She laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him further on top of her.

“What happened to letting me charm you?” He asked, not looking particularly upset at the change.

“What can I say? It’s absolutely effortless on your part.”

He huffed in amusement at that, leaning down to kiss her. “Well, for the record, I actually do like putting in some effort—”

“Do you now?” She couldn’t help but be coy. “As I said before—I’ll never ask you to do something you wouldn’t want. So if you _want_ to put in some effort….”

His grin deepened. “Such a considerate thing. How’d I ever get so lucky?”

“Better question: how much luckier will you get?”

He laughed and set out to answer that question to the fullest.

* * *

“Oh, one thing you should know,” Cal announced, half-asleep and already curling into Eist’s chest again as they finally settled in for the night. “I found that odd little Bruggian and brought her here, too. She’s coming with us.”

“What?” Eist was suddenly far more awake than he’d just been.

“The one who got us into all this mess,” Calanthe supplied.

“I know who she is—I’m asking: what exactly do you mean, you found her and brought her here?”

“May I remind you, Eist Tuirseach, I am a hunter. Tracking people isn’t hard to do. Especially not when you’re _that_ fucking weird and stick out like a sore thumb.”

He rolled her eyes at her predictable level of disdain. So she still wasn’t over the whole thing with Vanielle, despite all his assurances that nothing had ever happened between them. “How did you convince her to come with you?”

Now Calanthe merely gave a small hum. Eist stilled.

“Cal.”

“Hmm?”

“How did you convince Vanielle to—”

“You know damn well how,” she huffed, fluttering a bit against him. “The only way I convince anyone to do anything—I threatened her within an inch of her life and she, being the wise little creature that she is, chose to come along—”

“Calanthe—”

Now she sat up sharply, fixing him with an intense stare. “Eist. The love of my life had just been wrecked by an awful curse, and had sailed off to gods-knew-where for gods-knew-how-long, and she was the only person who had tried to stop all this shit before it even began. What would _you_ have done, if our positions had been reversed?”

He blinked at that. Quietly, he prompted, “The love of your life?”

It was her turn to blink quickly, and Eist heart soared even higher—because that confirmed his suspicion that she hadn’t even truly thought about what she’d said. It had just slipped past her tongue, as easily as breathing.

Because it was true.

Still, she merely supplied, “I didn’t…threaten her that much. She’s a fairly skittish little thing, I really only had to—”

“I think, maybe, I don’t actually want to know,” Eist admitted. His cheeks hurt from grinning so deeply. She was so awful and he loved her so dearly for it. He reached up and gently cupped her cheek in his hand. She closed her eyes and turned a little more into the touch. Quietly, he confessed, “You’re the love of my life, too.”

Her eyes squeezed even tighter shut and she let out a heavy exhale, as if he’d confessed some grand shocking secret.

“You really didn’t hurt her, did you?” He prompted.

“No. Of course not. Like I said, she _chose_ to come along—”

“After you threatened her—”

“She still had every chance to refuse, regardless of the consequences,” Calanthe reasoned with a prim little shrug of her shoulder.

“Liar,” he taunted softly, still a bit giddy at Calanthe’s whole confession. “As if you’d stop at anything to save the love of your life.”

She hummed at that. “True. I would have dragged her here, kicking and screaming, if that’s what it took.”

“Which it didn’t,” he prompted, still looking a bit unsure.

“Which it didn’t,” she assured him. She leaned forward, kissing his forehead. “She’s happily, safely installed in one of the other rooms; she’ll ride out with us in the morning.”

He merely grinned. She lay down again, snuggling back into his side.

“This is why you can never leave me again,” she admitted drolly, voice half muffled by his chest. “I go on rampages, when you’re not around. Kidnapping innocent little sphinxs and burning villages to the ground—”

“Did you burn a village to the ground while I was away?” It was a possibility, he realized.

“No,” she assured him, but there was something coy and playful in her tone. She shifted, lightly placing a kiss on his chest.

“You say no, but how you say it…implies yes.”

“Like I said, when you’re not around to keep me calm and composed—”

“Cal—”

“Stop your whinging, you know I didn’t. I was far too focused on getting back to Verden as soon as possible, to wait for you.” She tightened her arm around his waist, a half-hug of reassurance. “Still. I thought about it. Just to take the edge off.”

He huffed at that, taking a beat to run his fingers through her hair. “You are incorrigible.”

She hummed in agreement. “And the love of your life.”

“And the love of my life.”

He could feel her smile, as sure as a beam from the sun itself. She slid her leg over his, pulling their bodies even closer, and made a small burbling noise of happiness.

He wanted to laugh again. She truly was everything, always and all at once.

How could he have ever doubted that she could do everything she promised? Even Fate itself could not withstand such a creature, such a woman, such a fierce combination of beauty and brains and absolute brawn of will.

The love of his life. He smiled in the darkness, winging one last kiss on the top of her head and relishing the feeling of her falling asleep in his arms once more.


	24. Ard Carraigh

Eist awoke to the delight of Calanthe’s left breast rather close to his face—he shifted, looking up to see her propped up against the headboard, watching him with a syrupy-sweet smile.

“I hate you,” she informed him warmly. “You sleep like the dead, no matter where you are. The world rages, and you don’t even flinch.”

“Only when I’m with you,” he assured her, lifting up just enough to wing a quick kiss against the side of her breast. “Because I’m so thoroughly worn out.”

She hummed at that, ruffling a hand through his hair—which meant her left arm was fully lifted over his head, giving him perfect access to leave a line of kisses down the side of her ribcage. She was deliciously warm, as usual, and he realized just how deeply he’d missed the sleepy taste of her skin, first thing in the morning.

Calanthe let her fingertips trail down his spine, as far as she could reach, lightly pulling back up, simply relishing the feel of him. Her heart swelled again with another rush of affection and gratitude.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and softly changed the subject. “I promised, when we were in Gors Velen—I have a lot to explain, about…everything, really. Would you like me to tell you now?”

There was something hesitant, almost fearful in her tone. Eist paused, shifting to look up into her eyes again. She was still so soft and open, but she definitely was holding her breath, awaiting his answer.

“Would _you_ like to tell me now?” He returned softly. Quietly, he pointed out, “I still have just as much to tell you about my own past. I know who and what you are; I can wait until you’re truly ready to tell me who you’ve been.”

Her expression rippled with relief and affection.

“I’m not…ashamed,” she informed him gently. “It’s just…a lot of ground to cover. And it's a bit draining, I suppose. So if you can wait—if you trust me enough to wait until we reach Temeria—I will tell you everything, as soon as we arrive safely. We can…just take the time to tell each other everything.”

He smiled at that. “I like that idea. Both the idea of finally knowing everything about each other, and the idea of simply having the time to take.”

He nuzzled back into her side, quietly reminding her, “We have time, love. We have time.”

He felt the way her lungs expanded, ribs pushing out against his mouth. He wrapped his arm around her, holding her in place as his teeth came out to play. She began to wriggle (he knew _exactly_ where to nibble, exactly which spot was ticklish) and he held on tighter, hauling her entire body closer to his. She tumbled to the side, thrown off balance by the sudden shift, laughing in a quiet, breathless way that made his lungs bubble with joy and delight.

She didn’t beg him to stop, even as she squirmed and laughed. She simply tried to wrap as much of her arms and legs around him as possible, tangling them together so that Eist couldn’t truly tell where he ended and she began.

Chaos, he thought warmly. Wild, whirling chaos.

He held on tighter and let it overtake him.

* * *

“Thank the gods.” Vanielle’s face contorted in a mixture of delight and concern upon seeing Eist, once they finally came down for breakfast. “You will return, alive and well.”

“Have returned,” Calanthe corrected. Eist immediately knew it had not been an easy journey for the two of them, riding back to Verden together. Vanielle had probably been terrified and Calanthe’s obvious irritation probably hadn’t helped.

Silently, he gave Cal’s ass a light pop of reprimand. She shifted a little, but didn’t retort. Instead, she heeded the unspoken command to be nice, and offered a warm smile. “I trust you slept well?”

“Well, I slept,” Vanielle countered. Calanthe looked over her shoulder at Eist: _see, how the hell am I supposed to deal with that?_

Eist merely grinned. She was a brat, and the absolute love of his life. He wouldn’t change a thing about her for all the world, no matter how irritating she might be.

He took over, using his (apparently non magical) ability to soothe the waters between the two women, finally getting everyone’s breakfast ordered. The tavernmaster was so delighted to see the Hound back (especially after assuming, like almost everyone else, that he was dead), that he gave them a round of drinks, on the house.

Calanthe, predictably, bolted hers down with a low aside about certainly needing a drink (thankfully Vanielle didn’t hear). Eist tamped down a grin and slid his hand over her thigh, giving it a light squeeze under the table. She shifted, lightly placing her hand over his, warm and weighted.

Vanielle watched the Lioness and the Hound with mild fascination. They were obviously still mates—of course, she’d never doubted that, not since the Lioness had shown up at her doorstep, wild-eyed and ready to rain down destruction if Vanielle didn’t come with her to Verden. Vanielle had tried to explain that she wasn’t a healer or an actual mystic. She did not seek the divine. Did not control her own ability to access it, either. The Lioness, unsurprisingly, had not been able to understand that distinction. And Vanielle had finally understood that nothing could convince her otherwise.

Besides, she did _like_ Eist. She doubted that she could truly help, but should she not at least try?

As they’d ridden out of town, she’d seen a crow at the crossroads. Transformation was ahead, that much she knew. It was a sign—and she accepted and followed it, understanding that somehow, the Lioness’ bullheadedness had been fated, too. Maybe it had all been fated, exactly this way. Vanielle hadn’t expected Eist to survive. And yet he had—seemingly _because_ of the harbinger, if the version of events the Lioness had told her in Brugge were true. Maybe the woman's volatile and unbending nature would prevail again, saving Eist's life in a different way.

For whatever reason, Destiny had decided to bring Vanielle in. To connect them all. So she merely went with the flow of the Universe’s waters, trusting as always to float to whichever shore she was meant to walk upon.

The Lioness was far more bearable, with Eist returned. Less anxious and angry. Still strange and stilted, but then again, maybe that was the way of dragons.

After breakfast, they rode out to Brokilon, and Vanielle felt she could breathe again, away from the constant hum and hustle of the city. She happily retreated into the world of her mind as they plodded along—Eist tried to include her in conversation, at the beginning, but she quickly informed him that she found such exchanges a bit too draining and pointless for her liking, and he graciously smiled and let her be. He continued quietly speaking with the Lioness, and even without hearing the words, Vanielle heard love in the low murmurs between them.

This had been what she’d seen in his palm, two months ago. A love set in stone, decided by Destiny to transform. Of course, there was the part that she’d read, which she hadn’t spoken aloud, lest she change the course of Destiny.

_Catalyst_. That was the word written upon his fate, clear-cut and deeply set. She’d understood, then—the harbinger inside the Lioness was destined to bring about something, and somehow, Eist would be the final piece to set it into motion.

She’d seen that word, had retreated and apologized for ever trying to convince him not to go north, not to run headlong into his fate—and yet, she’d still worried and wondered what would truly come to be. The Lioness had answered that, over a week ago. Or at least she’d begun to answer it. There was still much left to unfold, and while Vanielle hesitated, she was still curious to watch it.

She blinked, focusing on the two riding ahead of her. Eist said something, and the Lioness looked at him cuttingly, arching a slow brow. Eist merely continued grinning and the corner of the Lioness’ mouth slowly crooked into a smile, too.

A harbinger and a catalyst, completely unaware of what they might unleash, Vanielle thought. But wasn’t that the way of all humans? So blithely ignorant of their true power and potential, so fragile and inexplicably capable such great destruction.

They’d learn soon enough, she reasoned. They all would.

* * *

They slept in shifts again, but having Vanielle along meant that there was one shift in which they could simply curl up together—and Calanthe had no qualms about wrapping herself around Eist, just as she’d done the morning after his transformation. She pressed her front into his back, keeping her cheek against his shoulderblade as her arm looped over his torso. Her hand came to rest over his heart, warm and reassuring, and Eist felt his throat tighten in a sudden rush of emotion (why had he ever denied her the chance to shield him, to guard him as fiercely as her nature demanded, why had he ever doubted that she could handle this, could handle whatever came their way?). He merely placed his hand over hers and slowly drifted into sleep.

It took several days, since apparently Calanthe lived in the southeastern corner of Temeria. Vanielle consistently refused to engage in conversation, in her usual polite and oddly-stilted way. Despite the promise to wait until reaching Calanthe's home to tell each other their full stories, Eist began slowly sharing bits of his childhood with Calanthe. He explained why he’d always assumed his mother was a siren, and how he’d come to realize that he was wrong, and the memories he'd repressed for nearly four decades.

Calanthe had merely reached over, lightly squeezing his hand in understanding. After a beat, she’d quietly said _Sometimes our memories try to shield us._

He’d agreed—and felt an ache, knowing she truly understood, and knowing that understanding didn’t come from warm and happy circumstances.

And she’d shared very small bits about her own childhood as well. She’d grown up in Cintra, in the far south. She’d never known her mother, who’d died giving her life. Eist didn’t push for more, knowing that she’d tell him everything, once they reached her home. She’d promised; he knew she would keep it.

Besides, there was a way that she…hedged, before giving a piece of information. Something small and painful in the way she always seemed to hold her breath for a beat before speaking of her past. He knew that when he finally heard the whole tale, he wanted it to be somewhere she felt truly safe, somewhere that he could hold her in his arms the whole time, reassuring her that it was all in the past, and he would keep her safe for now and always. Some stories needed to be told quietly in the shadows, not while riding across the wildness in broad daylight. He understood that.

Still, he ached at what that meant, for the story she would eventually share.

As their journey continued, Eist found himself unraveling more of his past, sorting through and figuring out bits that he hadn’t understood before. Sometimes Calanthe offered insight or some form of input, but most often, she simply listened. Truly listened, deeply listened, watching his facial expressions and sometimes giving small sounds to imply that she was still there, mentally and emotionally. She’d reach out, occasionally, touching his arm or his hand as they rode on side by side, silently comforting him in some small way.

He hadn’t realized how long it had been, since he’d truly talked about his life. Since someone had listened, and understood. He hadn’t realized how much he needed it, either. And while part of him hesitated to hear Calanthe’s story, he wholeheartedly wanted nothing more than to return the gift she’d given him.

After several days, they reached a small village, a hold near the border between Temeria and Mahakam. There was a large stone keep, surrounded by the village, which had another high stone wall encircling it, all atop the highest hill in the valley.

“Ard Carraigh,” Calanthe announced dryly. “It literally means _high rock_. Frightfully inventive naming conventions the Temerians have.”

Eist huffed in amusement—perhaps her distaste of Temeria wasn’t entirely feigned, he decided.

Still, Ard Carraigh looked peaceful, and quiet. Idyllic, in a way that he once would have found juxtaposed to Calanthe’s nature, but now felt suited her perfectly.

But she was still entirely herself. Because once they got closer to the gates, she pulled up the gaiter around her neck, fully covering her nose and mouth, and brought her hood over her head.

He watched her with mild curiosity.

“I’m not…banned, exactly,” she explained. “It’s just…better if no one realizes it’s me. I’ll explain it later.”

This woman. He shook his head slightly. He had no doubt the reason was still tied to some fit of temper she’d had, at some point.

Calanthe’s throat tightened at Eist’s expression. He truly had no idea (of course he didn’t, how could he?). As usual, she hadn’t truly considered the consequences of her actions—not fully, not deeply enough to see every angle. But over the past few days, her unease had begun to grow. For the first time, she was genuinely beginning to realize exactly what she was asking of him—exactly how much she’d hidden from him, for all these years. He’d only just learned that his entire life had been based on a lie, and she’d spent the last few days listening to him unravel it, still a bit shaken and unsteady about everything he’d ever thought he’d known. And now what was she doing? Showing him that everything he’d ever thought he’d known about her was a lie, too.

But it wasn’t. Not entirely. There were two sides to her coin and both were true, even if opposites—she had never lied to him, not truly, not in the ways that mattered.

She hoped he would be able to see it that way, too.

Her throat seized and she wondered if she should stop now, tell him everything now, before they entered the gates. No, she reasoned—once they were truly safe, once they truly had as much time as they needed to unpack it all, she would tell him. They'd made it this far, and they were almost there. They just had to make it to the keep. Then she could tell him everything, and pray that he understood why she had waited so long, why she'd kept so much of her past hidden from him.

He would understand, she reminded herself. If there was anything the man had in spades, it was patience and understanding—far more than she'd ever deserved, and yet he always seemed to give her more, at every turn. In Velhad, she'd literally confessed to murder and he'd merely wrapped her in his arms and made her feel safe and right again. This wouldn't be much different—in fact, it would hold a lot of eerie similarities, she realized.

In the end, it didn't matter. They were at the gate, and there was no stopping, no going back now.

A guard called down to them from the gate tower, asking for a show of colors. Vanielle urged her horse closer to them, obviously feeling a bit wary. Calanthe reached into her doublet, pulling out a piece of cloth, dyed and embroidered with a sigil, which she held up for the guard to see. The gates were opened and the drawbridge slowly lowered.

There wasn’t a moat around the keep, Eist noted. Just a wide, deep trench. Glancing down as they road across the drawbridge, he saw the ashes at the bottom. They used fire as their protection, rather than water. A dicey move, but bold in a way that probably deterred many potential invaders.

Still, he quietly wondered why a small village in the middle of nowhere was so heavily fortified.

They slowly made their way through the bustling cobblestone streets. It was market day—or perhaps every day had such hustle and bustle, Eist wasn’t sure. Children darted in front of their horses, intent on their games of chase or hoops. Hunters hawked pelts and cuts of meat; weavers hung their brightly-dyed pieces from the tops of their stalls; farmers displayed a colorful array of fruits and vegetables. And in one corner of the market, a young woman had a booth selling wildflowers in beautiful arrangements.

Eist immediately thought back to Couteau-ville, when he’d seen the vibrant flowers and imagined how they’d complement Calanthe’s features—and now, he remembered how deeply he’d regretted not buying them for her, in the end.

Calanthe’s voice, lined with hesitancy again, interrupted his thoughts. “I need you to wait here…just for a moment.”

She was already guiding her horse over to a hitching post. He watched in curiosity as she dismounted and tied her reins to the post, offering one last look over her shoulder before disappearing into some shop.

Vanielle moved past on her horse. “A walk on our own two feet would be good, I think.”

Eist couldn’t disagree—they’d been riding since first light, and it was past noon now. He led his horse to the hitching post as well.

Vanielle, unsurprisingly, was utterly content to walk around in silence, looking at all the different odds and ends on display. Finally, they reached the flower stall, and Eist could control his impulse no longer.

The young woman at the stall obviously saw the intent written in his face, because she rose to her feet when he approached.

“Morning sir.” She gave curt nod. “Some blooms for the missus?”

She meant Vanielle. Eist fluttered a bit, not sure how to deny it without insulting Vanielle.

Vanielle spoke first, “He has a mate, but I am not it.”

He’d somehow forgotten how odd Vanielle must sound, to other people. The flower girl blinked, but didn’t comment. Instead, she merely went back to business, “So what’s your lady like?”

Eist realized he didn’t know what kind of flowers Calanthe liked, or if she liked them at all. Decided to go with his previous impulse and choose colors that would accent her dark eyes.

He selected some bright yellow flowers, along with some deep blue ones.

“These cornflowers are favored by our good lady.” The girl picked up the blue ones, mixing them in the yellows. She nodded towards the keep. “You’re lucky there are any left today—she usually buys them all for her teas and such.”

The girl added a few springs of white baby’s breath (the only flower he knew by name, among the assortment). She took a beat to wrap the stems in twine, binding them together. Then, with a slight smile, she glanced up at him. “Are you here to visit the baroness?”

“Who?” He felt a small wash of confusion.

“The Lady Fiona. This is her barony. You’re obviously not from around here—no offense, sir—and the only foreign visitors we get are usually for the lady herself. Certainly no one gets in without express invitation or permission from her.”

“I…don’t think we’re here to see her,” he admitted quietly. But maybe he was? Calanthe said she knew people who could help them. Perhaps this Lady Fiona was one of them. And, Calanthe had been granted entry by showing some kind of…sigil, at the gate. So in some way, the baroness must have granted her permission of sorts.

“Life is long and the world is wide,” Vanielle announced easily, looking around with a serene expression, hands clasped in front of her. “Who can ever say if we have visited the lady?”

For some reason, the girl found her response amusing. After a beat, she announced, “You sound like the lady’s physician. Always with the hidden meanings.”

“I am not a healer,” Vanielle informed her.

“But you got magic in ya, aye?” The girl guessed, taking a beat to look over at Eist again. “The baroness keeps a druid, too. He’s a good man, as kind and gentle as the baroness herself. Got a certain way about him, the way you two do.”

Eist shrugged. He wasn’t sure how these people looked upon half-breeds, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to find out.

“A druid?” Vanielle perked up at the thought.

“Aye.” The girl gave a curt nod. “He’s been with her since the beginning, they say. I think she found him, whenever she was searching for cures for her ailments. But he’s never been able to fully heal her.”

“Ailments?” Eist was immediately intrigued. Maybe this was why Calanthe had chosen to come here—maybe Lady Fiona had some similar curse, or better yet, knew exactly how to break his.

The girl nodded, looking a bit saddened. “The baroness was affected by the plague, years ago. It disfigured her horribly—she wears a veil over her whole face nowadays. Tis a pity, too. Her daughter is a lovely girl; I’m sure she was equally beautiful, once upon a time. And she’s got a good heart. A kind heart—just like her daughter.”

Then she eyed him a bit more slyly, handing over the neatly-tied bundle of flowers. “Well, whomever these are for, she’ll love ‘em. Lucky lady.”

“She makes me luckier still,” he admitted with a smile of his own. He thanked her, paid for the flowers, and quietly continued on through the marketplace with Vanielle.

“You are as lost as I am, for once,” Vanielle announced, her tone still pleasant and light.

“Aye,” he admitted softly.

“The Lioness has many secrets.” Vanielle commented.

“Aye,” Eist agreed again.

“But she loves you. And makes no secret of it.”

Eist felt his chest tighten. He tamped down a smile.

“Tell me, Hound. You two have been mates for years—why did you try so hard to pretend as if you weren’t?”

He looked up to find Vanielle watching him in genuine curiosity and confusion, her head tilted to the side.

He felt a wash of confusion himself as he tried to explain, “Well, we’re not—humans don’t really—we aren’t _mates_ , Vanielle. Or spouses or…well, we’re sort of…figuring it all out, currently.”

“You choose to have sex solely with each other,” she pointed out, a bit flatly. “Which makes you no different than a pair of swans.”

He huffed softly at the comparison. And his heart tensed, realizing that while he didn’t seek out other people physically—and hadn’t truly, not for several years now, not since they’d pushed into more intimate parts of their relationship—he had no idea if Calanthe had been as monogamous.

“It’s true,” Vanielle prompted again, with slightly more gentleness, as if she could sense his thoughts. “I have spent a lot of time at the Ferryman, over the years. I’ve seen you both, when you’re apart and when you’re together. Neither of you take others into your bed, even when given ample opportunity to do so. And everyone else notices, too. The looks you give, the times you disappear together. No one is fooled by the odd charade.”

Now Eist blushed slightly. All these years, they’d tried to be so coy about it—but if Vanielle had been able to notice, then yes, probably everyone else had long picked up the scent.

“So why even go through it in the first place?” She asked again. She genuinely didn’t understand, he realized.

“Because….” He suddenly felt at a loss. There were so many layers to unpack and explain, half of which he didn’t fully understand, either. “I don’t know, really. Because Calanthe didn’t want to, I suppose. And I…wanted whatever she wanted.”

Vanielle hummed, as if she understood.

“But you are not hiding anymore,” she pointed out.

“No.” He felt another frisson of delight at the thought, for all that statement meant—they were out in the open now, because Calanthe wanted it, wanted the world to know that she loved him. He clutched the flowers a bit tighter. “We aren’t hiding anymore.”

* * *

Eist’s heart skipped a beat when he saw Calanthe in the crowd—she saw his face, too, and he saw the small shift in her shoulders, the little gesture of relief she’d given outside Coteau-ville, when he’d suddenly regretted not buying her flowers, two months ago.

He and Vanielle moved closer. Calanthe’s eyes were the size of saucers, when she spotted the flowers in Eist’s hands. He couldn’t help but grin even wider.

He came to a stop in front of her, lightly holding them out in offering.

“Why?” Calanthe asked slowly, as if completely stunned. Still, she took them, cradling them into her chest like a small child. Eist’s heart fluttered happily at the gesture, at the wonder in her hands, as if he’d given her some great treasure.

“Because they’re beautiful. Like you.” He answered simply. She blinked, looking up at him again. Her eyes melted and he knew that beneath her gaiter, she was smiling in that soft, sweet way that never failed to make his heart sing.

“They’re…just going to die,” she pointed out, though her tone was still a bit breathless, still a bit wonderstruck. One fingertip came up to lightly stroke the outline of a cornflower. Eist fell in love with her contradictory ways all over again. He decided he’d bring her flowers every chance he got, for the rest of his life, if it earned him such adorable responses.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy them while they’re here,” he returned philosophically. “And doesn’t mean they won’t look any less beautiful in your hair, bringing out those eyes.”

Now she blushed, dipping her head. She looked down at the flowers again, the corners of her eyes curling with smiles again. “As if I would ever wear flowers in my hair.”

“Well, I have been told that I am quite adept at persuasion,” he informed her, in mock seriousness.

She huffed at that, shaking her head. Then she turned and headed back to the horses. “We’ve tarried long enough. We need to get to the keep.”

“Where Lady Fiona lives?” He guessed.

She blinked over at him, obviously surprised.

“The flower vendor was a bit chatty,” he explained.

“Oh?” Calanthe’s left brow raised. Her tone was tinged with that same odd hesitancy that came any time she mentioned her past.

“Is she the person who can help us?” Eist asked quietly, not wishing to upset her further but also curious as to why they’d ended up here, in this little hilltop stronghold.

“No,” she spoke quietly, giving a small shake of her head. “She’s fairly useless—like most noble ladies, truth be told. But she can get us to people who can truly help.”

“Like the druid?” Vanielle piped up, still just two steps behind them. Calanthe practically jumped at the sound of the Bruggian’s voice—she was so accustomed to Vanielle’s silence that she’d all but forgotten the woman was still with them.

“My,” Calanthe tried to cover her surprise with a droll air. “The flower vendor _was_ a bit chatty.”

They reached the horses. Calanthe took a breath. “And yes—I think, perhaps, the druid can help us. Among others.”

She untied the reins and hauled herself up into the saddle again. A wave of unease that had been building in her stomach now slammed into her chest with sudden tightness. The full magnitude of what must come next truly hit her. There was so much to explain. So much to overwhelm him with. So much that she had…lied by omission about. Would it be too much?

Only one way to find out, she thought, guiding her horse towards the imposing keep at the far end of the city. They reached the final, lower gate which surrounded the keep itself. She displayed her sigil cloth again, and the gates opened.

_Express invitation_ , Eist’s mind recalled the flower girl’s words. Somehow, Calanthe knew this highborn lady well enough to have access into the innermost keep.

Calanthe led the way inside, offering one last look at Eist over her shoulder. The keep itself was a squat and thick square, three stories high with a block-shaped tower on each corner, all covered in moss. Calanthe rode around the corner, to a small courtyard before a large stone staircase that led to the second floor.

Everyone dismounted from their horses. Vanielle and Eist looked to Calanthe expectantly, not sure what came next. It was eerily quiet in the courtyard—no servants, no one rushing out to greet them. It almost seemed abandoned.

Then, a heavy side door opened on the first floor, nearly hidden under a trellis of flowering vines. Out came a man with shoulder-length hair, streaked with grey. His kindly grey-blue eyes twinkled as he smiled, walking towards Calanthe with his arms open in a gesture of welcome.

“Returned, at last,” he announced.

Calanthe removed her hood and her gaiter, bridging the distance between them to bring him into a hug.

Eist felt a flutter of confusion. He wasn’t sure he’d actually ever seen the woman hug anyone else, in all the years they’d known each other. No, he was _certain_ of it.

She turned back to Eist and Vanielle. “May I present to you the good lady’s druid.”

He smirked at that, shaking his head softly as he held up his hands. “I am a free man, who chooses to aid the good lady where I can.”

He moved forward, shaking hands and officially introducing himself as Mousesack and welcoming them to Ard Carraigh. His accent was decidedly Skelliger, Eist noted, and suddenly, he wondered if that was why the flower girl had assumed they must be magical as well—simply because he and Eist sounded similar.

Mousesack offered to stable the horses, gently taking everyone’s reins and leading the mounts away.

Calanthe took a beat to take a breath. At this point, she needed to explain—at least some of her situation, enough to help them navigate the next few moments. She moved closer to Vanielle and Eist again.

“So, there is something you should know.” She still had Eist’s flowers in her hands, and she held them a little tighter. “I will explain everything in fuller detail, once we’re settled, but for now—”

“Ah,” a voice called out, from above. “I see you have deigned to grace us with your presence again.”

The trio turned their heads to see a woman standing atop the stone steps, hands calmly folded in front of her.

The lady herself, Eist thought. And she looked like a grand lady. Delicate features, light blue eyes and a level of serenity that radiated power and nobility, even more so than her detailed and finely-tailored gown.

She gave a slight nod to Calanthe, quietly decreeing, “Welcome home, Lady Fiona.”


	25. This Fallen Princess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, gang. We're about 12 chapters out, at this point. My plan is to have the whole thing wrapped by Christmas Day, so fingers and toes and all crossable things crossed. For those also following A Night With the Queen, posting on that story will resume as soon as this one is wrapped.   
> Thank you to everyone who's still here and made it this far on this journey. You've made it so much more worthwhile <3

**The Royal Court at Vizima, Temeria.**

Tissaia De Vries kept her hands calmly clasped in front of her, looking down the length of her nose at the young woman standing before her, at the foot of the dais.

It truly was like something out of a fairytale—a young mother and her child, claiming to be chased by dragons, seeking refuge. Honestly, the sheer novelty was probably why King Foltest was indulging this charade, for now. He was, like most rulers, easily bored and easily entertained, in equal measure.

For now, the haggard-looking young woman was entertaining. In a morbid sort of way.

“Please.” She held the babe squirming in her arms a bit tighter. “You are—you are bound, by honor, to aid me.”

King Foltest stiffened at that. Tissaia tamped down a sigh. The poor girl. She’d chosen the wrong tack for this particular horse. Foltest delighted in flaunting tradition and honor and all codes of morality. Tissaia half-suspected the only reason he’d let the poor wretch get this far was because he planned on pulling her into his bed before casting her out again. She was a pretty thing, too, Tissaia mused—darker features like most Cintrans, with the kind of big brown eyes that made men promise dangerous things.

“Good lady—if indeed you are even such.” Foltest rose to his feet, leaving his throne and coming down the dais to stand in front of the woman. “I am bound by _nothing_. You arrive at my court in little more than rags, claiming to be a princess of Cintra—my own cousin, no less!—and yet, you have no proof. Nothing but a fantastical tale of dragons and a cloak that you could have easily stolen.”

A heavy silence followed the unspoken accusation.

Tissaia stayed atop the dais, watching the exchange with fascination. Yes, the young woman—Calanthe, she called herself—had arrived, falling at Foltest’s feet and begging for shelter and sanctuary. She’d sworn to tell him everything, on the condition that it be done in private.

Of course, Foltest had been unable to resist the intrigue. Everyone else had been removed from the hall, aside from Tissaia and the shabby-looking druid who had accompanied the woman and her child, who couldn’t be more than a year old. Calanthe had revealed a cloak embroidered with the royal crest of Cintra, claiming to be a princess of House Raven.

“I am—” The woman twittered, suddenly a bit flustered. “I am the daughter of Adalia, daughter of—”

“Anyone can recite a family line,” Foltest pointed out, a bit abruptly. “That does not prove a thing.”

He had grown bored, Tissaia realized. The novelty had worn off, and now Calanthe was a potential burden, another responsibility upon his shoulders which he would gladly shirk if given half a chance.

She watched the young woman’s fingers flex a bit tighter into the blanket wrapped around her child, who still rested against her shoulder. And for the first time, she saw a flash of strength and determination within the young woman’s eyes.

“I have more proof,” Calanthe announced. “Things that only a member of our line could know.”

“Then give it,” he demanded.

Now, again, the young woman looked uncertain. She pressed her lips into a thin line, as if mentally weighing some great consequence. Then she shifted the child a bit in her arms, moved closer, and quietly whispered something in the king’s ear.

His shoulders went ramrod, and he looked upon her with a new gaze—a particularly murderous one, at that.

Tissaia was thoroughly interested with whatever had just occurred.

The young woman kept her eyes firmly locked onto the king’s, almost daring him to refute whatever she’d just whispered to him. Her expression hadn’t changed at all, and yet, she seemed a different creature entirely now—burning and dangerous and more than willing to burn the world around them to protect herself.

And then Tissaia felt it—the odd ripple through the air, heavy and coiling and absolutely powerful, waiting to erupt. With a flutter of further surprise, she realized it was emanating from the young woman.

Tissaia had never felt such a thing. It wasn’t the same chaos that the mages tried to harness at Aretuza. It was primal and beyond reckoning, that much she could tell just from the way it electrified the air.

She absolutely needed to know everything about this fallen princess, and the monsters who had created her.


	26. Always Been Too Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...just a bonus content thingy, I guess: in this chapter, Calanthe makes a specific "reptilian" noise. When writing it, I imagined it's quite like how alligators sound. Then of course I realized not everyone knows what that actually sounds like, so here ya go: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bXTlmnjGx0Y  
> Also, interesting to note: this sound, due to the way it's produced, is something you can "feel" if you're close enough. Look at you, possibly learning something new today!  
> (and let's be real here: if Cal *could* make her vocal chords do that, our favorite little overly aggressive murder gremlin absolutely WOULD, like...nonstop)

**Eighteen Years Later.**

**Ard Carraigh, Temeria.**

Eist’s brain was still roiling, feeling as off-kilter as the first time he’d stepped aboard a ship.

Calanthe looked back at him, smiling hesitantly. She clutched her flowers a bit tighter.

“ _You_ are Lady Fiona?” He still spoke it aloud, still feeling the need to confirm what he’d just heard.

Her smile wobbled a little, but she nodded, keeping her eyes locked on him.

Calanthe could feel her pulse in her jaw, pounding through every inch of her body. Vanielle always looked a bit fish-eyed, and truth be told, she didn’t give a flying fuck about the woman’s reaction. But Eist—he still looked so flummoxed, and it made her uneasy. It wasn’t the revelation itself that bothered her, she realized. It was Eist’s inevitable realization that she’d lied to him about so much, for so long.

“I know this is…a lot to process.” Her words were tumbling, like her pulse. Why had she thought waiting would make things easier? Why oh why oh _why_ hadn’t she better prepared him? Why hadn’t she told him, long before she practically trapped him here, dangling the promise of a cure over his head?

She knew why: because deep down, she was forever a coward. Procrastination was always the coward’s path.

“It is,” he admitted softly. Her heart lurched—he was finally understanding that the parts of his life that he’d kept from her were not nearly as monumental as the ones she’d kept from him. He was finally seeing that she wasn’t who she pretended to be. That she never had been, for as long as they’d known each other. She wanted to explain that both sides were true, opposite faces on the same coin, that in so many ways, she’d never lied about who she was, not with him, not in the ways that truly mattered.

But all she could do was look at him and tremble, clutching the flowers in her hand for dear life as she watched his expression shift with his thoughts.

“Apologies.” Tissaia’s voice drew everyone’s attention again. Her usually-serene face was set with an expression of unease. “I had assumed that anyone who’d been allowed to enter this far would already know the truth of your identity.”

She spared a quick, regretful glance at Calanthe, who immediately forgave her—after all, she should have told Eist everything, before they’d left Verden. Or during the journey, during any of the hundreds of moments when she could have easily done so.

Eist shifted closer to her, placing his hand softly on the small of her back as he spoke, “Sometimes it’s better to be surprised, as the saying goes. I’m Eist Tuirseach of Skellige. And this is Vanielle of Brugge.”

Calanthe ducked her head slightly, blinking back a sudden rush of tears. She didn’t deserve the easy grace that he’d just given her, and yet she needed it, most desperately. She was so keenly aware of just how much she was throwing at him, without ever doing anything to ensure that it wouldn’t be too much—and yet, as ever, as always, he acted as if it were the most natural way of doing things in the world.

“I am Tissaia de Vries, and I welcome you to Ard Carraigh.” Tissaia gave a small nod. “I believe we should get you both settled in, before we start with the inevitable amount of questions that we have for each other.”

She turned and walked back towards the two heavy oak doors that led into the keep. Vanielle hurried up the steps to follow her.

Calanthe lightly pulled at Eist’s elbow, keeping him back.

“I should have said something sooner,” she whispered. “I had expected—or hoped, I suppose, for a moment to explain. But I know that it’s still so much, and I should have…better prepared, should have taken the time to tell you before. I promised—we are here, and we are safe, and now, I can tell you everything. I _will_ tell you everything, right here, right now, if you wish to hear it.”

He felt his heart clench at the worry in her expression, in the way she clutched at his sleeve, as if she feared he might bolt, might abandon her here and now (as if he ever could, after everything). He still had a thousand questions and confusions—and yet, they meant nothing compared to the absolute fear in her eyes. It didn’t take half a second for him to know his answer: as always, he would take whatever path shielded her, whichever choice gave her the least grief.

Despite the confusion of the moment, Eist felt another rush of warmth. Yes, he loved her—this wasn’t some trick of their natures, because it wasn’t her charm that compelled him to reach out, physically and emotionally, to reassure her. He easily pushed aside his wants to tend to her needs, merely placing his hand over hers. “I do wish to hear it—but only when you truly feel safe in revealing it all. I do not want you to tell me simply because you think you…owe me the truth. I can wait, Cala—wait, should I call you Fiona?”

She blinked at that. “No, I’m—I mean, I _am_ Fiona, but I’m mostly Calanthe, here, too. Just—when others are around, it’s best to refer to me as Lady Fiona.”

He merely nodded, as if it made perfect sense. She loved him all the more. Despite his assurance that she didn’t owe him anything, she felt even more keenly just how much he deserved to know everything—more importantly, just how much she _wanted_ him to know, wanted there to be no secrets left between them entirely.

She cleared her throat, tried to explain: “You asked my full name, the night before we entered Velhad. Once upon a time, I was Calanthe Fiona Riannon, princess of Cintra. And now…when I am here, I am Fiona Ravenna, baroness of Ard Carraigh.”

Eist blinked hard at that. Then, after a beat, he simply said, “Ok.”

“Ok?” She echoed, feeling a mixture of hope and apprehension.

“Ok.” He repeated. “As you said, it’s a lot to process, and…ok, I’ll process it, and we’ll move through it, together.”

 _Move through it_. For some reason, the phrase amused her.

“It’s a title; it’s not as if I have the plague.” She drawled, genuinely smiling for the first time since Mousesack’s arrival.

The plague. Eist thought back to what the flower vendor had said. It made absolute sense—Lady Fiona’s supposed disfigurement was a clever cover story to allow Calanthe further anonymity by having Fiona constantly veiled.

 _Pavetta_. The realization struck him. Lady Fiona had a daughter. Which meant—

“You also…have a daughter?” He guessed, quietly. Her face rippled with shock, immediately confirming the question.

“Yes,” she said quietly. He could see how hard she swallowed, as she kept her eyes locked onto him. “Pavetta. She is—she is the greatest treasure of my life.”

Her voice rippled with pure emotion. He felt another tug of adoration for the woman and just how deeply she loved, in all ways.

Calanthe. A mother. Somehow, it was an idea that Eist couldn’t even consider before this moment and yet now, he thought it fit her perfectly. Of course she was a mother, fierce and nurturing and surprisingly soft.

Eist was smiling. That had to be a good sign, Calanthe decided. He gently clasped her shoulders, leaning in to kiss her forehead.

He didn’t say anything. Somehow, Calanthe understood anyways—he still loved her, for all her varied and strange surprises. And truly, that was all that mattered. The rest could be conquered easily enough, so long as they chose to conquer it together.

 _We both chose this_ , she reminded herself. For whatever it was, whatever it might mean, they had both made this decision. The thought expanded in her chest, warm and overwhelming. The relief rushing into her veins made her want to collapse and cry with gratitude, but she pulled herself together. She took his hand and led him up the stairs, through the still-opened doors of the keep. “Come. We’ll have a nice meal, and then I can spend the rest of the evening telling you everything.”

“Perhaps not the _rest_ of the evening,” Eist suggested—and his tone implied that he had other plans for the night.

She ducked her head and fought back a grin. He squeezed her hand in reassurance as they headed inside, into the other side of Calanthe’s life.

* * *

The main entrance was on the second floor of the keep, which held the great hall and all the receiving rooms. Eist was led to the third floor, where the private chambers were, all overlooking the small town and the rolling hills surrounding it.

Thank the gods that Calanthe made no pretense of giving Eist a separate room—instead, she had his things brought up into her chambers, which were so surprisingly feminine that Eist had to do a double-take. Delicate furniture that looked as if it might break when sat upon, gauzy curtains covering three sets of gold-outlined glass doors which lead to a long, narrow balcony, all opened and looking out into the mountains to the south of the village. Flowers and trailing vines were painted upon the walls—and practically in the center of the bedchamber, a large four poster bed, covered in expensive furs and silks, and surrounded by sheer curtains delicately embroidered with purple and crimson flowers with gold stems.

“Far cry from a bedroll in an open field,” he noted, a bit impressed. She hummed in agreement, reaching out to rub the small of his back ( _later_ , her touch promised, and he smiled softly at it).

“Wait here,” she commanded lightly, handing him the bouquet of flowers and unbuckling the strap that kept her ax securely on her back. With one last smile over her shoulder, she walked to the corner of the room, opening a small door painted teal with a golden lattice design over it and disappearing inside.

He merely walked around, taking in the details of the walls—the painted vines went all the way across the ceiling, swirling into a large, wreathed circle in the center. Eist noted that the bed was directly underneath the circle as well. Once again, so completely unlike what he’d imagined Calanthe’s life to be like, and yet, now he couldn’t imagine it any other way.

A rustling sound drew his attention—the little painted door opened again, and Calanthe appeared, in a simple embroidered dress. She smiled, seeming almost embarrassed, and moved forward, smoothing her hands over her hips. She gingerly took the flowers back into her hands, smiling softly again as she looked at them.

“I’ve never seen you in a dress,” he realized, still a bit wonderstruck.

“They’re not particularly suited for monster slaying,” she pointed out. Beside her bed stood a small table whose top was inlaid with ivory, its delicate wooden legs covered in gold. She left the flowers there, her fingertips lightly trailing over them one last time with a soft sense of wonder that made Eist grin anew.

Eist took a moment to simply appreciate the way she moved in a dress, the way it highlighted her hips and added an airy grace that he hadn’t quite noticed before—or perhaps she’d simply never walked like that, while out monster hunting. Everything about her posture was different, now. She didn’t stand with her feet set apart, didn’t keep her shoulders as firmly rolled back—no, she was smaller and softer, and so unlike herself.

He ached, a little, seeing how muted she was, even in the smallest of ways.

She turned back to him, smiling a bit. “We’ll have to have baths, before we dine. The servants generally don’t come until evening, but Mousesack has sent for them. As far as they know, I’ve been ill again, confined to my rooms for weeks on end, with only Mousesack and Tissaia to care for me. It’s—that’s the story we always give, whenever I go out on a hunt.”

“So…they think you’ve been ill for nearly three months?” He felt a soft ripple of surprise.

She nodded in confirmation. “The village prays for me, every time. So I do feel a bit badly about that—but gods know I need all the divine intervention I can get, most days.”

She offered a dashing grin at that, and he gave a soft huff of amusement.

Then, with a light sigh, her expression became a little more somber. She went to another table, placed up against the wall and positioned underneath a gilded mirror. There was an ivory box atop it—out came a sheer black veil, and a small coronet, beset with pearls.

“I’m afraid that I’ll be in this, for most of the day,” she informed him. “But only when there are others around. Tissaia, Mousesack, and Pavetta are the only ones who see me without the veil—it’s part of the reason why we don’t have servants come until evening. It allows me a little more freedom and lessens the chance of someone catching me without it.”

Eist bit back the urge to ask why the secrecy was so deathly important. Again, he felt a slight measure of fear for why that might be.

She simply paused, watching him with an unreadable expression. Then, taking a small, steadying breath, she spoke, “The veil…is necessary. To protect my identity—but not just so I can run off to hunt monsters, or even simply come and go as I please. There is a reason I came all the way from Cintra and changed my name. I am a dragon’s daughter, but I am more than that—I am a harbinger, you know that, but I am specifically meant to _their_ harbinger. I was…created. To bring forth a new age, as it were.”

Eist frowned at that. Calanthe took a small step back towards him. “My mother—or so they say, I do not know, as I never truly met her—was the eldest daughter of the king, and she was sent away because she went mad. Adalia. Adalia the Mad is literally what they called her. She was confined to a castle in Hochebuz. And there…she met my father. Well, _met_ implies some sort of chance—he found her, because he chose her. Adalia had the sight. Some…gift from her elven ancestors. It is why she went mad, they say. But her madness gave her power—more power than the average human. And if there’s one thing dragons like to hoard most, it’s power.”

Eist’s mind spun with this new information. He’d always suspected, given what very little Calanthe had mentioned about her father, that her conception had not been a soft and pleasant thing. Still, his stomach tightened and roiled at the thought of her story’s implications.

“I do not….” She looked away, blinked, tried again. “I do not know how it was, between my mother and the dragon. My nursemaid used to say all the time that she was willful and wicked—she made it seem like Adalia chose to…bear me. And I can see….”

She drifted off into her own mind for a moment, her gaze become dazed as her mouth curved downwards—Eist’s favorite little line came out, just at the corner of her lips, and he softly ached at the sight.

He took a small, soft step towards her, holding out his hands but not actually touching her, giving her ample time and space to notice and turn away. But she ducked her head and bridged the rest of the distance between them, closing her eyes softly when he placed his hands on her upper arms.

Calanthe opened her eyes, focused on the buttons of Eist’s doublet—she didn’t have to let it all out, she reminded herself. Just the bits he needed to know right now. “As the harbinger, I was meant to unleash chaos upon the world—I mean, I know I do now, without even trying, but the specific havoc they expected of me…was more than anyone could imagine. It was meant to change the world, in the worst of ways. So I fled. I took Pavetta and I fled, here, to Temeria. My mother’s younger sister was King Foltest’s mother. So he was honor-bound to aid me, in a way. He didn’t want to—granted, I had told him that I was being hunted by dragons, so you can’t entirely fault him—but Tissaia…convinced him. The Baron of Ard Carraigh had recently died, leaving no heirs behind to claim the land, and Tissaia decided that I should take over the barony. She was the king’s sorceress at the time and held considerable sway. I was given a new name, a new identity, and…it’s been this way, ever since.”

Eist made a small sound to let her know that he was still here, still following along intently. He let his thumbs gently stroke against her upper arms, desperate to comfort her in any way that he could, no matter how slight.

“Mousesack has been with me since Cintra—he found me, in a way. Right after I…escaped.” Her fingers flexed, slowly clutching Eist’s doublet a bit tighter. “I was ill, and he healed me. He chose to accompany me to Temeria, to ensure I made it safely. And by then…by then, he’d decided to stay. To…help me.”

Eist felt a wave of confusion, now. He remembered the warmth in their greeting. Imagined what it must have been like, traveling with Calanthe for weeks on end—yes, he could imagine any man pledging to stay for a lifetime, to do whatever she needed, to do whatever it took to stay in her presence. Still, he tamped down that small flame of jealousy (because after every tryst they’d shared, she’d always come back _here_ , back to Mousesack, and when she’d spoken of retiring, she’d meant returning here, to Mousesack, and that sparked something in him, in a way that wasn’t entirely comfortable). Still, he held his tongue and kept his patience.

“Tissaia began visiting, once or twice a year. Eventually, she decided to stay. To help me as well—you see, I knew I was a dragon’s daughter, but I had no clue about my powers or my abilities, in the least. She trained me, taught me how to control them—well, control them as much as I am able, with this…nature of mine.” Calanthe smiled a bit, trying to come off as wry and self-effacing, but there was something almost…chagrined, in her expression. She was so small and vulnerable, in a way that Eist hadn’t seen before, despite all the ways she’d opened up to him over the past month.

He brought his left hand up, gently cupping the side of her face, letting his thumb stroke against her cheek. She closed her eyes in quiet gratitude, pushing a bit farther into his touch. He leaned down and kissed her opposite cheek. Quietly, he reminded her, “I do so love that nature of yours.”

Calanthe sighed, turning slightly into him as he kissed her cheek again, as soft and reassuring as ever. She wanted to weep with relief at the acceptance contained within the simple gesture. He loved her, of course she knew that. And despite his many assurances, she still hadn’t been sure if it would be enough—if _she_ would be enough, be worth staying, worth continuing what was between them.

Eist closed his eyes and took a beat. He’d known that hearing Calanthe’s story would not be easy—and he knew that this was merely a taste of what would come. But he’d sworn that he would listen, with full support and acceptance of whatever she told him. He took a shaking breath and added, “Nothing you tell me will ever change who you are, or who you’ve always been to me. I have loved you; I do love you; I will love you. All of this—not matter what all of this is—is what I chose to love and accept, whenever I chose to love you. And I will choose it still.”

She made a small sound at the pronouncement, grabbing his doublet and nestling farther against him. He wrapped his arms around her fully, dipping his head to kiss her shoulder. Her dress smelled of dried lavender (Calanthe _hated_ lavender, he thought dazedly) and her body felt different, with the solidness of her corset, but even through the layers, he felt the familiar flush of heat across her skin—yes, she was still entirely herself, he decided. And he still loved her, entirely.

She wasn’t going to tell him anymore, yet, he realized. She’d explained her connection to Tissaia and Mousesack, had explained the veil and the alias—that was all he needed to know, for now. While he wanted to know everything, he’d meant what he’d said, on the steps of the keep. He wanted her to tell him because she wanted to, because she trusted him and felt safe doing so.

So he set out to remind her of just that. He let his left hand slip to the back of her head, holding her in place as he turned and pressed reassuring, staying kisses into her temple, again and again. _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here, you’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe._

There was another sudden surge of heat beneath his lips, and he realized, with a prick of surprise, that it had been days since they’d truly been alone, since they’d truly had time for more than a few stolen moments along the road. He shifted slightly, and Calanthe must have read his mind easily enough—her hands were slipping up his chest, circling around his neck to pull him into a proper kiss. She gave a warm, aching sound and he tightened his grip, diving deeper into her mouth with his tongue.

There was a clattering noise, and Calanthe quickly vaulted him away from her, turning away to cover her mouth as the door shunted open and a joyful young woman burst in, her eyes shining as her long blonde hair billowed and wisped in every direction.

“Mother!” She cried out.

Calanthe whirled back around and Eist was nearly blown away by the sheer adoration radiating from her expression.

“Pavetta,” she breathed, as if it were a prayer. Not that she had time to utter anything else—her daughter was practically launching into her arms, nearly toppling Calanthe over with the force of her delight. Calanthe merely wrapped her arms around her, swaying softly as she held her.

Eist though his heart may well explode from sheer happiness at the moment. Yes, of course, Calanthe was a mother—of course her daughter adored her, in equally fierce measure. Again, he no longer could imagine any other alternative.

“Why didn’t you come find me as soon as you arrived?” Pavetta asked, still holding her mother tightly. She didn’t look a thing like her mother, Eist noted. Light hair, light eyes, and a round, almost elfin face. But she held that same aura of chaotic joy, for certain.

“I had—a few things to handle first.” Calanthe admitted, casting a shy glance at Eist over her daughter’s shoulder. It was the first time he’d truly been able to see her face since her confession—he realized that she’d been on the verge of tears, during their kiss.

Pavetta shifted back, as if suddenly realizing there was someone else in the room.

“How do you do.” She gave a quick, small curtsy. “Lady Pavetta Ravenna, pleasure to meet you.”

“Eist Tuirseach of Skellige, a pleasure as well.” He placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head slightly. For some reason, the gesture amused Calanthe, who merely watched him with an unreadable-yet-pleased expression.

“Eist…is a hunter as well,” Calanthe supplied gently.

“Ah,” Pavetta looked at him with renewed interest. “So you’re aware of the whole charade surrounding this keep, then.”

“Some of it,” he returned.

“Well, you know my mother isn’t Lady Fiona, terribly disfigured by the plague,” Pavetta returned. Then, with a sly glance at her mother, she added, “And it seems that you find her unmarred features _quite_ pleasing, if I interrupted what I think I did—”

“ _Pavetta_.” Calanthe turned beet red, and Eist couldn’t help but laugh. He’d genuinely never seen her so mortified, so unlike her usual brazen self.

“Oh, so I _did_ ,” Pavetta confirmed with a widening grin. She may not have resembled her mother in coloring, but Eist realized that when she smirked, she looked quite like Calanthe.

“I am a good friend of your mother’s,” Eist supplied—it wasn’t a lie, in the least, he decided. They might be more than simply friends, but they still were certainly friends.

“A good friend whose saddle bag is lying at the foot of her bed,” Pavetta drawled, casting a glance to the bed in question. “Yes, I dare say you two are quite close. Bosom buddies, for certain—”

“Out, now.” Calanthe took her by the shoulders and spun her, pushing her towards the door. “To believe I toiled so hard to bring such an uncouth little creature into the world—only to have her speak so—”

“As if you do not speak exactly the same!” Pavetta crowed with laughter, glancing over at Eist as she shuffled towards the door. “Tell me, Eist Tuirseach—doesn’t my mother—”

“Oh, no, absolutely not.” Eist held up his hands, waving away the thought. “I shan’t have any part of this.”

“Wise man.” Pavetta grinned again. Then she turned back towards her mother, gently taking Calanthe’s wrists in her hands. “But I do have some important news to share. You’ll be pleased—oh, say you will be pleased!”

“Seeing as I do not know the nature of this important news, I cannot say how I will be, upon learning it,” Calanthe pointed out, arching her brow slightly.

Eist’s cheeks twinged from smiling so deeply for so long. Ah yes, Calanthe’s daughter kept her on her toes, he could tell—fitting, given her mother.

Now Pavetta looked a little uncertain, hesitant and fearful in a way that again reminded Eist of her mother.

“Promise you’ll be pleased,” she prompted again, squeezing Calanthe’s wrists.

Calanthe took a long, beleaguered breath through her nose, watching her daughter with cautious eyes the entire time.

“I am certain that if it brings you joy, then I shall find joy in it, too,” Calanthe answered, still looking a bit wary.

Pavetta grinned anew, throwing her arms around her mother’s neck again. “Wonderful. I’ll share the good news with everyone at dinner. Until then, I suppose I should let you two…prepare.”

She stepped back, casting another glance in Eist’s direction and lifting her eyebrows suggestively. Eist ducked his head and tried to hide his amusement.

“Don’t encourage her,” Calanthe warned. She cupped her daughter’s cheek, leaning in to give her a kiss on the other. “She’s brazen enough as it is.”

There was something…adoring, almost prideful in her tone on the last line, Eist noted. His smile only deepened.

Pavetta whirled out of the room, just as quickly as she’d come, leaving a wake of silence.

“Well, she’s right,” Eist admitted, after a beat. Calanthe glanced over at him, lifting her eyebrows in silent questioning. He supplied, “I _do_ find your unmarred features quite pleasing.”

Calanthe rolled her eyes at that, moving back to the side table with the mirror hanging on the wall behind it. She still had her veil and coronet clutched in one hand—she gingerly arranged the veil over her head before placing the coronet atop to hold it in place.

It was almost unsettling, having her face almost completely obscured from him. He could see the occasional glitter of her dark eyes, could make out the barest outlines of her features. But the nuance and the depth were gone entirely.

“A bit haunting?” She guessed quietly, watching him through the mirrored reflection.

“A bit,” he admitted softly.

“I don’t always wear black,” she informed him. “I have…others, as well. It’s just—this one is the best for daytime appearances.”

She delicately lifted the veil, bringing it over her head so that she could simply look at him without anything between them.

“It isn’t always like this,” she assured him, once again. There was a slight desperation in her eyes, as if once again, she feared overwhelming him.

He merely nodded, unsure of how else to respond.

There came a knock on the door. The veil went back into place and Calanthe called out, in a tone he’d never heard from her before: “Enter.”

Tissaia de Vries entered. She cast a slight, knowing glance in Eist’s direction. However, unlike Pavetta, she made no comment on exactly why he was in Calanthe’s bedchamber.

“The ladies have drawn your bath,” she pointed out delicately. “As well as one for Sir Eist, in one of our other chambers.”

Calanthe nodded at that. She reached over, lightly squeezing his hand. She headed for yet another small painted door, on the opposite side of the room.

Tissaia motioned for Eist to follow her. Eist immediately felt a bit off-center again, in this strange new world without Calanthe to guide him. Still, he hurried to catch up to Tissaia, walking through the shadowy stone hallway that seemed a complete juxtaposition to the light and airy feel of Calanthe’s chambers.

“Tell me, Sir Eist.” Tissaia glided along, her expression and tone as unbothered as ever. “How much do you know about our good lady?”

“Well, I’ve—we’ve hunted together for years, so I know her, in the way of character and personality, quite well. I’ve only just learned about Fiona and Pavetta, but other than that, I know nothing of this side of her life.”

Tissaia hummed.

“And it’s not—I’m not a sir.”

“I know,” she said simply. “But as long as you are here, as the guest of a noble and honorable lady, you must be a sir. To have a commoner sleeping in the baroness’ bed would be a scandal too great for such a small village.”

He blanched slightly at that. For the first time since his arrival, Tissaia de Vries smirked.

“Good sir, it would be wise to remember that here, there are very few secrets well-kept. Someone else will be changing the lady’s sheets—your presence will be noted, in more ways than one.” She took a beat to level a gaze at him, letting the realization sink in. “We do keep the place clear of servants until later in the afternoon, usually, but it is important to note that from the second floor upwards, all the windows can be seen from the village streets. Particularly at night, if there’s a fire or candle lit within. I know you are used to calling her by a different name, but it is imperative that you do call her Fiona when around others, and that you use proper titles when addressing her. _Your ladyship, my lady, baroness_ —any of those will do. You should always stand when she enters a room. You do not have to do a full, obsequious bow, but slight shows of respect should be expected when joining her after an absence between you. The same goes for Lady Pavetta.”

“And for you?” He asked.

“For me, Tissaia is just fine.” Then after a beat, she added, “Sorceresses do not need titles and all that tedious protocol.”

Calanthe had already told him that Tissaia was a sorceress, but it wasn’t until this moment that he realized the full extent of it. A sorceress and a druid, living in her home. Calanthe hadn’t lied—she did know powerful people.

Tissaia came to a halt in front of a closed door. She took a beat to look at him down the length of her nose—quite an impressive feat, considering she was a full foot shorter than he.

“The lady does not trust lightly, and yet, it is clear that she trusts you a great deal,” she announced, still watching him with a critical and curious gaze. “I hope, for your sake, that you are worthy of such trust. And know that if you are not, you will live just long enough to regret it.”

Eist felt a ripple of surprise at the threat, followed by soft delight. Calanthe had people who loved her, who cared deeply enough to defend her. That made him happy, even as they leveled threats against him.

“I plan to spend my life proving my worthiness,” he informed her, meaning every word.

Tissaia arched a brow at that. “Good. Because if you fail, it will be your life on the line.”

She turned on her heel and headed back down the hall. She waved her hand over her shoulder, not bothering to look back. “Through the door, please. And do hurry. Supper is in an hour.”

He merely grinned and shook his head. He liked her, he decided.

* * *

Eist certainly did not have any clothing suited for a dinner with a baroness, so Mousesack kindly lent him something more appropriate. Once he was fully washed and dressed, Mousesack led him back down to the second floor, to the main hall. There was a table laid out with a feast fit for a king, Eist thought. Roasted pheasants and summer fruits on beautiful display, polished silvers and fancifully embroidered napkins that were far more precious than anything he’d ever dined upon.

He seemed to have somehow stumbled onto a fairytale, he thought amusedly. Except, in a delightful circumvention that sat quite well with Calanthe’s personality, he was the one rescued by the princess, rather than rescuing her in turn.

Vanielle was already seated—she, too, was wearing borrowed clothes, and looking positively ill at being surrounded by so many unfamiliar faces. Upon seeing Eist, her expression broke into one of relief.

Eist felt a pang of pity—the poor woman hadn’t been given much choice, forced along onto this journey and all but abandoned once they arrived.

“How are you?” He asked quietly, dipping his head so that only she could hear.

“I am…well,” she answered, as they settled into their seats. “It is a strange place, but the druid is kind and the mage is…efficient.”

Eist huffed at that. Yes, _efficient_ was certainly a good descriptor for Tissaia de Vries.

“You are well, too?” Vanielle returned, looking at him in concern.

“I am,” he assured her. He glanced across the table—Mousesack and Tissaia were quietly talking amongst themselves as well.

There was a slight stirring, and the doors to the hall opened once more. Mousesack and Tissaia rose to their feet, with Eist and Vanielle following suit.

Lady Fiona, fully veiled, and her daughter entered. The doors closed, but the veil stayed down—Eist realized that it would probably stay that way, throughout the meal. He tried to tamp down the slight feeling of disappointment at the realization.

“Mother of mine, it is warm today,” Calanthe announced breezily, making her way around the table to take a seat beside Eist. Once she was seated, she allowed her hand to slide over his thigh, giving a slight squeeze of assurance.

“Tis the nature of the season, my lady,” Mousesack pointed out.

“Yes, thank you, druid, for the incomparable insight,” Calanthe drawled, glancing down the table at the various dishes assembled. “Whatever would we do without your guidance and wisdom.”

Pavetta dipped her head and huffed in amusement. Mousesack, who was seated next to her, merely gave her a slight side-eye, which only made her grin more impishly.

Even with her face hidden, Calanthe’s smile was palpable, Eist realized with a small flutter of delight. Still, it ached, just a little, knowing it existed and yet having it hidden from him.

The meal continued quite pleasantly. Calanthe had been “indisposed” for three months, and Tissaia and Mousesack had much to recount. Eist’s head began to swim as he realized the extent of Calanthe’s position—every time she’d returned from slaying monsters, she was met with even more responsibility, seeing to the daily lives of the people of Ard Carraigh, from harvests to winter storage to even the rising dislike of the local priest. But it seemed quite obvious that Pavetta was growing into the position, handling as much as she could on her own.

He smiled at that. Of course Calanthe’s daughter would also be deeply intelligent and competent at anything she set her mind to. He knew absolutely nothing of Pavetta’s father, and yet, he knew that Pavetta was entirely her mother’s daughter.

A bell chimed in the distance, and suddenly, Pavetta sat upright, as if jolted awake. “Oh. Oh, dear. Mother—I promised to tell you something, when we spoke earlier. It’s the most wondrous news, actually….”

Mousesack and Tissaia exchanged slightly confused glances, and Eist realized that whatever the surprise was, it would be such for them all.

“As you know—” Pavetta shifted in her seat, obviously nervous. Her cheeks were blushing and she didn’t quite look at her mother. “Well, I am of an age when a young lady should think of—”

There was a commotion outside the hall. The doors shunted open, and a young man all but tumbled in, his dark curls in disarray.

“Forgive me,” he breathed. “I am late.”

Eist felt the sudden rush as Calanthe leapt to her feet, pushing her chair back so violently that it toppled backwards, clattering onto the stone floor. She whipped off her veil, giving a low, deep, rumbling sound in her throat—a sound Eist had never heard before, so reptilian and feral that it truly scared him—as her entire body trembled with rage so palpable that he felt it washing over him like the waves upon the shore.

The sensation of _dragon_ rose and prickled across his skin—he felt Vanielle shift uncomfortably beside him, being the only other half-breed who could sense Calanthe’s rising fury in a way that no one else could.

“Mother.” Pavetta was on her feet too, holding out her hand lightly, as if to ward her off. “Mother, I meant to tell you before he arrived. This—this is Duny, Mother. He is…he is my betrothed.”

Now everyone in the room stopped and stared at the young woman.

“What?” Mousesack barely breathed the word, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

“I forbid it,” Calanthe snapped, before Pavetta could respond. Her voice was raw and shaking, tearing its way up her throat. “And I forbid you ever to speak to this _abomination_ again—”

“Mother—”

“My good lady.” The intruder moved closer, his face contorted in sorrow as he gently placed his hand over his chest. “Please allow me to truly introduce myself before you pass—”

“Oh, I know full well what you are,” Calanthe growled. Eist noted that her fists were still balled so tightly that her knuckles were pure white. “And I stand by my word—I forbid it, and I banish you henceforth from this house, from this land entirely—”

“ _Mother!_ ” Pavetta whirled back to face her, absolutely horrified. She was beginning to breath heavily, her eyes already filled with tears.

“It is only out of love for you that I do not slaughter him on sight,” Calanthe hissed, bracing her hands against the table as she leaned in, using it to support her as she put every possible ounce of venom and bile into her words. “Do you even know what he is—”

“He is the love of my life!” Pavetta shot back hotly, mimicking her mother’s posture to slam her hands on the table.

“You are a _child_ ,” Calanthe retorted. “You cannot know of love—you’re not yet seventeen—”

“Nineteen,” Pavetta shot back, her brows furrowing. Calanthe blinked, as if struck.

There was history there, Eist realized. An unspoken accusation in the way Pavetta corrected her mother. He suddenly realized that, all the times he saw her, out and about in the field of monster slaying, it meant she was away from her daughter, for days and weeks—and yes, even months—at a time.

“Still too young,” Calanthe decreed, with a shade less conviction.

“The same age as you, when you wed my father,” Pavetta pointed out.

“Then heed the experience of my words—”

“I _love_ him.” Pavetta turned on her heel, walking towards Duny and taking his hands in hers. “For over a year now, we have courted, and I am certain of my choice. You told me once—that I may choose, in ways that you could not. You promised me this much: a choice of my own. And this is the choice I have made.”

Calanthe looked absolutely stricken, her expression slack, her eyes still wide and brimming with fear.

Eist felt a measure of pity—both for Calanthe and her headstrong daughter, knowing they both loved so deeply and so fiercely. He gently reached for her, to soothe her.

She snatched her hand away from his, as if he were a red-hot poker iron. Her face flushed bright red, and tears flooded her eyes.

 _Kill him_. The words, still entirely in her own voice, rippled across his brain. But it wasn’t a command—not entirely. He wasn’t compelled, not as fully as he had been, the night he asked her to command him. He felt a blossom of shock that she could even ask such a thing.

Her chest was heaving, and she was still shaking so violently that he feared what she might do next. A single tear slipped down her cheek, and she looked back at her daughter and the young man whom Pavetta had apparently accepted as her betrothed.

Calanthe still felt the world spinning madly beneath her feet. After all this time, after all she’d done, after all she’d tried to prevent, the moment was still here.

Pavetta. Her precious, precious child. Her one shining jewel of goodness, among the wreckage of her life and her legacy. Her one worthy thing she’d done. She had no idea. How could she?

 _I love you_ , she thought, her heart breaking anew. _I love you, and I hope one day you will understand that I break your heart to save your soul._

Calanthe dipped her head, took a deep breath, and sighed. She had played this game before. She kept her mind blank, her body collected.

“You are…right,” she admitted. “I did promise you the right to choose. And I pride myself on keeping the promises that I make.”

She slowly walked around the table, moving to stand in front of Duny and Pavetta. She didn’t feel her own body as it moved, though. She seemed to float across the floor, the only sensation in her being the constant steady pounding of her pulse, through every inch of her body.

She wanted to weep. All this time. All this time, and she’d never been safe.

Still, she forced herself to smile. To lightly take Pavetta’s hands in hers, slightly moving her away from Duny.

“I love you.” She said simply. “With all my heart.”

Pavetta smiled, her eyes filling with fresh tears.

Calanthe lightly kissed her daughter’s hands, the tears falling freely as she softly closed her eyes. _One day, I pray you will forgive me._

Then she turned to Duny, who still watched her with a smile, as genial as ever. Oh, how well he played his role. She reached for him, as if to welcome him. He slowly stepped forward.

Yes, she’d done all this before. But this time, it was not to save herself—no, it was a stake far greater. The life of her child, her golden ray of a daughter.

And just like before, as quickly as she could, she drew the blade from the sleeve of her dress and launched herself at his throat.

* * *

Eist was on his feet the moment he saw the flash of the blade, his entire body seizing with panic—and then a scream. A scream from Pavetta, so loud and so terrible that it rent the air in two. The world shattered, and he felt the air leave his lungs as he slammed back against the stone wall of the great hall, cringing and shielding his face as food and tablewares flew around the room as well. Magic pulsed through the air, heavy and more powerful than he'd ever felt before.

 _Calanthe_ , his mind exploded with the thought. He struggled to stand against the whirling wind, trying to find her.

She lay across the hall, a small, crumpled heap on the floor. He fell to his knees and crawled towards her, ducking his head as various items flew around the room. He couldn’t look elsewhere, couldn’t focus on anything else but her form, so small and so still that it filled him with absolute terror.

He finally reached her, pulling her into his arms and keeping her shielded with his chest. She shifted slightly, and his heart melted in relief—she was still alive, and that was all that mattered.

“Calanthe.” He kept his lips close to her ear, so that she could hear him—yet he didn’t know what else to say, what else to do except repeat her name, over and over again like a mantra, a prayer.

Her hand clutched his upper arm tightly as she shifted, pushing her cheek harder against his as their bodies tried to withstand the tornado funneling through the room and the overwhelming push of her daughter’s power.

“It’s too late,” she murmured, her voice etched with terror and despair. “All this time—it’s always been too late.”

He had no idea what she meant, and he couldn’t truly think about it—because as soon as the words left her lips, her entire body went limp, sinking so heavily into his arms that his heart nearly stopped with fear.

He looked around, desperate to find help. In the center of the room, Pavetta was holding Duny’s hands, quietly chanting—except they were both levitating off the floor, slowly rising higher and higher, as if lifted by the same winds that tore around the hall.

Tissaia and Mousesack were up against the wall, watching her with absolute wonder and horror. For a sorceress and druid to react with such uncertainty and fear only caused Eist’s own to grow—for surely if this worried them, then it was a great concern for all.

 _I was created to bring forth a new age._ Calanthe’s words from earlier echoed in his head.

As he looked up at her daughter, now oddly glowing as the world swept and spun in chaos around her, he realized that he understood exactly what she’d meant with her last words.

_All this time—it’s always been too late._


	27. Freedom

**Hochebuz Castle (in the southern wilderness), Cintra.**

The voice did not return until she was fourteen—long enough for Calanthe to convince herself that she’d merely had some waking nightmare, some sort of childhood fancy.

Then it came to her, one late summer day as she sat in the library reading, trying to escape the overwhelming heat.

_Harrrrrbingerrrr._

Her entire body froze, and her skin prickled in a sweat.

_Are you prepared to accept your fate, creation of mine, creator of chaos?_

She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even think of one. But this time, she had better instincts—she slammed her book shut and bolted from the room.

As if she could outrun the voice. As if she ever could outrun any part of her destiny. As if she could be anything except exactly what she’d been created to be.

* * *

The voice continued. Not every day, not all the time. It waited until the quiet moments, when she’d lulled herself into a false sense of security, when she let her guard down.

But it always returned. It fell silent in the winter, but with the first warmth of spring, it returned—more often, more insistent than before.

It told her all sorts of things. Called her the glorious harbinger of the new age. And, surprisingly—called her _worthy_ , something she had never been called before.

Still, its voice drove pure fear down her spine. Her body trembled and her stomach always rebelled—the sensation of evil, of illness and vileness, was so pervading, so prevailing prurient in every syllable and rasp that her only reaction could ever be one of terror and revulsion.

She sought to outrun it, yet again. Tried to make sure that she was never alone, for it only ever spoke to her when she was—so then it would speak to her as she lay in bed at night, would push into her dreams to wake her.

Her nursemaid began to notice the changes. Noticed the dark circles under her eyes, the sallowness of her complexion, the tired listlessness of her demeanor.

_A touch of your mother, rearing its ugly head,_ she decreed. Calanthe felt small and wicked, as always—because wasn’t she becoming her mother, all over again? Going mad, in this forgotten castle in the forest? Wasn’t she becoming everything her nursemaid had promised she would be, given her sinful creation?

Her tutor also noticed. He often laid his hands on her shoulders, leaning in to whisper assurances that he was here, here to help her in any way, if only she’d open up to him. It took every ounce of self-control not to physically recoil—she may be young, but she was no fool. She understood that his offer came with conditions, and his feigned worry over her health was merely a guise to make her think he truly cared, when all he wanted was to prove that she truly was as wicked and headstrong as her mother.

No, Calanthe was alone in her travail. Alone with the voice.

But the voice wasn’t everywhere. Calanthe began to realize that it still…had to find her. She stopped sleeping in her own chambers. She slept in the watch towers, or the library, or whenever she could create a small nest to lay her head. If the voice found her in one location, she wouldn’t use it again.

But it always found her, in the end. So she began sleeping with a knife—a thin, cruel blade she’d stolen from the kitchens, used for deboning fowl. It was the only one she could find, the only one she could take without someone noticing or at least suspecting it was her doing. She took her knife with her everywhere, always attached to her person in some way. Not much good against a voice inside her head, but it gave her some sense of comfort and control, nonetheless.

Then one night, just after her fifteenth birthday, the voice found her at every turn. There was no safety left, no place she could go that it would not soon appear as well, calling her softly and telling her that the time had come.

She hurried down the hallway, determined to leave the castle itself and half terrified of what that might mean—to be alone, in the open, not knowing what might happen, in a world that she’d only seen from her window and read about in her books.

Then she heard it—not the voice, but another sound, heavy and rippling, smooth and deadly, sliding over the stones in the corridor.

_Harbinger_. This time, it did not growl or rasp. Its voice was smooth as water, calm and lulling. _Harbinger, creation of mine—you must not run anymore._

Her feet stopped, before she could even realize. Her heart began to pound and her throat tightened.

_Tell me, harbinger—tell me what you wish, what you desire in all the world, and it shall be yours._

She found herself answering, before she could even decide if she should: _Freedom_.

It was true. She wanted to be free. To finally leave Hochebuz, the castle she’d been confined to since birth. To finally leave her nursemaid and the constant reminders of her wickedness. To leave her tutor’s grasping hands and false concernities. To leave this voice and its haunting intrusions into her thoughts and her dreams. To leave it all—to leave her own self, if she could.

The voice chuckled softly. The slithering sound got closer.

_Harbinger, I can give you all the freedom in the world—all the power, too, as the mother of the gate. You shall unleash wonders upon this earth, and with it shall come the power to unleash yourself, as you so desire._

Images flashed across her mind, though they did not come from her own thoughts: her, atop a golden, twisted throne, wearing a shining crown and glowing in a gown of copper; her, standing atop a mountain of bodies, in golden armor stained with blood and dirt, raising her sword in victory; her, walking through crowds on their knees, bowing to kiss the hem of her rippling gown of blood red, beset with rubies and diamonds.

And beside her, each time, a dragon. Shimmering and powerful and absolutely terrifying.

Though she’d always hoped against hope that it wasn’t so—she now knew beyond all doubt exactly what the voice had been. And exactly who.

Her own mother had not been much older, when she gave birth to Calanthe. The certainty settled in her gut, and her eyes welled with tears as the truth turned her bones to lead.

No. Her mind and her body flooded with the thought. She tried to run—but an odd sensation jolted through her body, as if she were suddenly a marionette, being jerked back by the strings. Her legs refused to fully obey, and she stumbled, falling to the floor and turning around quickly to look behind her. Her mind screamed and raced, but her body stayed, as if immobilized completely.

The shadows shifted, and the air felt heavy and thick, like the moment before the first strike of summer heat lightning.

_Harbinger_ , the voice pushed into her mind again, rippling over her entire body like a wave of gentle warmth. _Harbinger, creation of mine—worthy one, mother of the gate, destroyer of worlds and creator of chaos—do not fear the greatness of your destiny. Accept it. Accept your fate. Accept your place in the grand design of our triumph._

The odd feeling of her body moving without her thought or control slid through her veins. The muscles in her thighs slackened, and she felt a sudden, heavy heat in her hips.

_No_ , she thought, with growing desperation. No, this was not what she wanted, not how she truly felt. Her terror rose, making her throat so tight that she could not breathe.

Again, her mind was flooded with more images of power and control.

_All the world shall be yours_ , the dragon promised. _You have only to give me one thing, one moment of your obedience._

One thing. One thing, which had cost her own mother her life. She clenched her jaw—the thought blossomed with surprise, she _clenched_ her jaw, yes, she did, on her own! It took effort and power of will, but yes, she did it—pushing against the strength of her own body, she could regain control.

Her pulse sped up again, fire and fear prickling over her skin and drenching her in further sweat.

Could she do this? Could she truly hold on to her own sense of control long enough and well enough?

What other alternative did she have?

She stopped struggling and simply waited, trying to will herself to take deeper, calmer breaths.

The darkness rippled again, and then—the dragon stepped into the moonlight.

Shock blossomed in her chest. Why, he wasn’t the big and fierce thing she’d seen in the visions—no, he was hardly enough to be called a dragon at all.

Still, he was terrifying enough—nearly ten feet long, she supposed, from tail-tip to nose, with short, thick legs that barely kept his underbelly off the ground. Shimmering scales that looked tough to pierce, and a row of cruel spikes down his back.

Yes, he was truly a dragon—but Calanthe realized that he was not nearly the monster she’d expected him to be.

And he was beautiful. Glittering crimson and gold, with darker brushes of black on the row of cruel spikes along his spine. Eyes that burned like coals and wings that shifted, iridescent and mesmerizing in the moonlight that spilled through the long windows at the end of the corridor.

She felt the push of his charm over her mind, the soft command to continue obeying. She willed herself to stay still, to wait for him to move closer. Willed her mind to stay blank, to remain unreadable, to only focus on him.

He moved closer, swift and rippling in a way that only pushed more fear into her gut.

One of them would die tonight, she realized. If given the chance, he could utterly destroy her, with absolute ease. For now, he approached with surprising gentleness, as if he genuinely didn’t wish to scare or hurt her.

But then again, didn’t everyone, when they wanted something. This creature was no different than her overly-attentive tutor or that awful priest who had been so adamant about the purification of her soul—eager to win her trust, so they could better shatter it, later on.

He stopped before her, leaning in to look into her eyes with his own. Again, she felt the way her body acted against her true wishes, tightening and warming in response to the closeness of his.

He genuinely believed her could fully command her. She felt a flash of prideful fury (well, she always was a willful, wicked thing, wasn’t she—and wasn’t it all his fault, for creating her so?).

She leaned back farther, willing herself not to shake with fear and revulsion as he shifted closer.

And then, as quickly as she could, she drew the blade from the sleeve of her night dress and jammed it into the side of his neck with every ounce of strength she could push into her arm.

He hissed and writhed—she ducked to avoid being slammed in the head with his own, gritting her teeth and pulling hard on the blade still embedded in his neck. There was a sudden rush of warm wetness against her hand—blood, she realized dazedly, his blood. He made a gurgling, rasping sound as he wrenched back, and she pulled the blade out, scrambling around his lumbering form to land another blow in his side, trying to reach his lungs.

He bellowed, and screeched, loud enough to wake the dead. Her ears began to ring and her mind fritzed and shuddered as he tried to regain control of her—but he was in too much pain and all he did was push the agony he felt into her own body.

Again, she put the full weight of her body into the blade and pulled down, fighting against the pain he flooded into her mind. His tail whipped around, slamming hard against her leg and bringing her to her knees. But she held onto her blade for dear life ( _freedom_ , she promised herself, _freedom forever, through triumph or death_ ) and kept pulling down, with all her rapidly-diminishing strength. Her body was shaking so violently that her gaze couldn’t even focus on a single point—but it didn’t matter. She had her blade in him, and she wouldn’t stop until one of them was dead.

With another ear-splitting bellow, the dragon collapsed. Her hand was so slick with blood that she lost her grip as he rolled onto his side, taking the knife with him. She stayed there, on her knees, entire body shaking as she simply looked at the creature, silent and unmoving before her.

_Freedom_. Her heart sang with it. Then her muscles gave out and she fell back, letting out a long, sharp sob. She quickly scooted backwards, putting as much distance between them a possible, until her back hit the stone wall.

No one came. All that commotion, and yet still, no one had rushed to her aid.

Calanthe couldn’t say she was entirely surprised. No one had ever tried to save her before, why should they start now?

She stayed against the wall, keeping her eyes on the defeated dragon.

Even now, he looked so beautiful. And even now, she wanted to weep.


	28. Trust and Faith

**Twenty-Eight Years Later.**

**Ard Carraigh, Temeria.**

Calanthe could feel the tears still sliding behind her closed eyelids, the sudden softness of her bed beneath her body, the gentle tone of Eist’s voice as he laid her down. It still felt odd and detached, like she was floating in the ocean again, distantly aware of sounds and sensations but somehow not connected to her own body or her surroundings at all.

“It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright,” Eist kept whispering, over and over again, like a mantra.

She wanted to weep all the more at his words, at his kind tone, at the gentleness of his hands as he made her more comfortable. She wanted to cry and scream at the truth of it all: it wasn’t alright, it couldn’t be, it never would be.

She couldn’t open her eyes. They were too heavy, like the rest of her body. But she heard another voice—Mousesack, farther away. “Pavetta is safe, and unharmed. Tissaia is with her now.”

She felt a rush of gratitude—of course, he knew that would be her first question, her first concern. She felt his hand, lightly patting the top of her shin. She heard him shuffling around the room, looking for his usual round of potions and liniments, no doubt.

She felt Eist’s hands, warm and weighted around her own. She flexed her fingers, just enough to reassure him—anything else felt like too much effort, beyond her abilities.

Still, she tried to speak, not bothering to try opening her eyes, “All…all this…time….”

Mousesack shuffled closer again. “I know. I know. But it’s alright—”

“Not—” It took such effort to speak, as if a weight were on her lungs, making each breath sharp and hard. “Not alright.”

Eist’s left hand stayed clasped to hers—but she felt his right lift away, followed by the light brush of his fingertips across her hairline.

“It’s alright,” he assured her again. “It’s alright, love, just rest. We can talk more later.”

She wanted to cry again, at the worry and fear in his voice. His sweet, tender heart—she knew he was so scared, because she’d made him that way, with all these facets of her life. And yet he was still here, through it all, despite it all.

“You don’t….” It took such effort, but she pushed through anyways. “Understand. You don’t—”

She felt the air shift around her—Eist was moving closer, leaning over her, she could tell. His lips brushed against her forehead. “It’s alright. You’re safe, we’re all safe. I’ll be right here, the whole time. Just rest.”

He shifted away again, and she felt Mousesack’s fingertips lightly holding her chin.

“Here,” the druid said simply—she knew well enough, opening her mouth and letting him place the tablet under her tongue. He kept his hand over her forehead for a full beat, and she could feel the odd shifting at the back of her skull, which still throbbed from being thrown against the stone floor earlier. The aching eased and filtered away completely. She shifted, lifting her right hand slightly. She felt Mousesack reach across her body, lightly placing his hands around her right wrist. Again, the odd-yet-long-familiar sensation of magic knitting her back together rippled through her bones.

“Rest,” Mousesack commanded, his hand returning to her forehead.

She tumbled into sleep entirely.

* * *

Mousesack delicately closed the small vial of tablets—he’d placed one in Calanthe’s mouth, and instantly, Eist had known that whatever it was, it was the same thing Calanthe had given him when he’d been deathly ill with the transforming fever, back in Velhad.

He suddenly understood where Calanthe had learned all her tricks, her concoctions and herbal remedies—from a druid, of course. The more he learned about this fantastical life of hers, the more it made absolute sense.

Mousesack stepped away, back to the cabinet from where he’d taken the pills. He grabbed a nearby chair and brought it over, so that Eist could sit at Calanthe’s side. Eist quietly thanked him, taking a seat and taking her hand back in his.

The adrenaline had finally died down, but Eist’s hands were still shaking as he gently traced his fingertips across the back of Calanthe’s hand, over and over again, like a silent mantra. Now he truly understood what she must have gone through, when he’d been lost to his fever. The helplessness of it all, simply watching her impassive face and wishing with every fiber of his being that she’d open her eyes, or twitch her lips, or do anything to prove that she was still here, still with him, even as he desperately hoped that she would stay calm and resting.

His mind wandered, finally having the time to unravel all that he had witnessed in the past half hour.

Somehow, Tissaia and Mousesack had been able to break Pavetta’s focus and end the wild windstorm whipping through the hall. Pavetta had been mortified, when she realized what had happened—she truly seemed to wake from a trance, a bit dazed and unable to fully understand what she’d done. Eist had looked over at Vanielle, whose wide eyes and tight lips spoke volumes: even she had not foreseen such a thing, and yet somehow she still seemed unsurprised to find them at the center of some disaster.

Mousesack walked around to the other side of the bed, removing his shoes and gingerly climbing onto the mattress to sit beside Calanthe and place a compress across her forehead. Eist tried not to feel a surge of jealousy at the familiarity of the gesture—the man didn’t hesitate, crawling into her bed, didn’t act as if delicately caring for her was a foreign concept to him in the least. Eist’s throat tightened and his veins burned, even as he chastised himself for such doubts, such awful, petty thoughts when the love of his life was lying before him, injured and incapacitated.

The love of his life—and she’d called him the love of hers, in turn. He knew it, deep in his bones, regardless of what her connection to this druid might be or have been.

“She will heal,” Mousesack announced, with utter certainty. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s that Calanthe Fiona Riannon will overcome anything she damn well puts her mind to. She will wake again, exactly when she means to.”

Eist gave a small hum at that—he couldn’t deny, that sounded like an apt description of her character.

Mousesack merely shifted, sitting cross-legged on the bed as he turned his attention fully to Eist. “Perhaps, in the interim, you can tell me exactly what has brought you here—by _you_ , I mean you and the Lady Vanielle.”

Eist sat back slightly, thrown off by the directness. Mousesack simply watched him, remaining completely neutral, yet open and approachable. Quietly, he added, “As stated, Calanthe doesn’t do anything without full intention. Well, _almost_ anything—I’m sure you’re well-aware of her temper, by now. But she’d never bring anyone into this keep, or into this particular corner of her life _especially_ , without a damn good reason and an even larger amount of forethought and trust.”

The same sentiment Tissaia de Vries had expressed earlier, Eist realized. And in that sentiment, he felt another measure of assurance—yes, whatever he had with Calanthe, it was different from anything else, unlike any other entanglement she’d had before.

And if Calanthe trusted these people—well, then he would too. Still, he quietly warned, “It is a long tale, I’m afraid.”

Mousesack held out his hands, as if indicating that he had nothing but time.

Eist told him about knowing Calanthe for ages, about being approached by Vanielle just before Zagradd Nyt’s arrival, about choosing to accept the commission anyways, about Velhad and being bitten and thinking Calanthe had healed him, about his own heritage and how it most likely affected the transformation, about the last full moon and his acceptance of Calanthe’s offer to help find a cure.

Mousesack said absolutely nothing, through it all. Merely studied him with keen eyes, still obviously attentive and alert to every new piece of information.

Finally, once Eist was through, the druid added, “And you two are lovers.”

Eist blinked hard—yes, of course, he imagined everyone was at least passingly aware of their relationship, but for some reason, the announcement now felt almost like an accusation. He supposed it was—he had told the entire story without mentioning their true connection, and in a way, it was a bit of a lie not to, seeing as it was the thread that tied it all together. He’d only gone to Velhad because he loved her, he’d only gotten bitten because he loved her, he was only here because he loved her.

“Yes,” he returned simply.

“Good,” Mousesack nodded. “That may help us yet.”

_Us._ He hadn’t waited for Eist to actually ask for his help, and again Eist was struck by the absolute loyalty of the people surrounding Calanthe—they committed to cause without blinking, without even being asked to.

Mousesack glanced over at Calanthe’s still-impassive face. “You know…some of her story, I’m assuming?”

“Some,” Eist conceded.

“That she is a princess?”

“Yes.”

“First born of a first born, unto the seventh generation?”

“No.” Eist wasn’t sure why that mattered.

Mousesack gave a small smile, as if he understood his confusion. Quietly, he pointed out, “She should be high queen of Cintra.”

Eist blinked hard at the realization.

Mousesack continued, “She is a princess without her promised crown. Aside from her dragon’s blood, that alone makes her…an interestingly powerful being. Not because of any magic or abilities, but rather through sheer virtue of her existence. It’s hard to explain, other than Destiny likes to…fill the void. Nature abhors a vacuum, as it were. By having an unfulfilled—and yet prewritten—destiny, it makes for both chaos and completion, in an odd way.”

The man would get on quite well with Vanielle, Eist thought mildly.

Obviously, the druid could sense Eist’s confusion. He held up his hands as if to explain, mimicking a balancing scale. “Destiny is actually rather good at balancing things out, you see. Life is chaos, but the concept of Fate and Destiny bring balance to how and where the chaos occurs—or it tries, at least. To be someone whose fate is decided before their birth—even before their conception, even before the conception of their mother—is a powerful thing. And to have that destiny thwarted or taken away creates a hole in the tapestry of their fate, which must be filled in some way.”

“Does not the barony fill that?” Eist asked, frowning slightly. In a way, Calanthe ruled over this stronghold like a queen, bearing all the responsibility for caring and sheltering its citizens.

Mousesack gave a slight smile. “A baroness is nothing compared to ard rhena of the continent’s most powerful country. The woman was destined to be without master of any form.”

Eist felt a small grin of his own at the thought—yes, that fit Calanthe perfectly, and truth be told, she easily fulfilled her destiny in that regard. He could not imagine a single being on the entire earth who could truly seek to tame or rule her.

“She was destined to make history. To rewrite it, if she chose.” Mousesack pointed out. “And hitherto, that destiny has been unfulfilled. Which gives her powerful potential—Destiny owes her a great debt, in a way, and it only gains interest as the years pass.”

The druid took a beat to look at Eist, as if waiting for him to understand. Quietly, he added, “Which means, if she set out to change someone’s life—say, perhaps, a man afflicted with a terrible curse—Destiny would be all but bound to fulfill her whim to rewrite history, even in such a small way. To make up for how her fate was denied in the first place.”

Eist felt a tightness in his chest. Maybe that was why Calanthe had been so fervent, so desperate to have him come to Ard Carraigh—because she knew this, and truly knew she could heal him, if only she had the druid and the sorceress to show her how.

“I may not know the full extent of your connection—nor do I want to, truth be told.” Mousesack gave a wry grin. “But I know that she cares quite deeply for you, or else you would not be here at all. There is nothing Calanthe will not do for those she loves—and heaven and hell shall bend to her will, in the end.”

Eist hadn’t felt so hopeful in ages. But Mousesack was so certain, so absolute—how could it not be exactly as he proclaimed?

_The full extent of your connection_. The words rippled through Eist’s brain. Quietly, he watched the man. “Forgive me, but I am still at a loss as to the full extent of your connection to Calanthe as well.”

“You mean: why would a man who met a woman wandering in the wood give up his entire life to follow her and help raise her child?” Mousesack clarified drolly, arching a brow. He took a full beat to merely observe Eist’s reaction. Then he added, “Not for the reasons you think. At least…not anymore and not for a long while. There may have been a time when the person I was could have had something more, with the person she was. But we are no longer those people, and have not been for quite some time.”

Eist frowned slightly at that, even as he felt a measure of understanding. Yes, people changed in some ways, over the years, but in some they remained the same. He thought back to meeting Calanthe, eleven years ago. He’d instantly been struck, and even now he couldn’t imagine a single thing that could ever turn the tide of his heart. But he supposed that he should be grateful that the druid was not the same.

Mousesack smiled softly. “I am here because it is my destiny to be here. Because once upon a time, I met a young mother, lost in the woods, near the edge of death. She put her child in my arms and begged me to take her away, as far away as I could.”

Eist’s heart tightened as his gaze slid back to Calanthe, still deep asleep. It didn’t feel quite right, learning this part of her story, not from her own lips. He ached at the thought of what she must have gone through, what fear she must have felt, to willingly hand her child to a stranger in hopes that he would save Pavetta.

“At the time, I didn’t know it—but she did far more than beg. She compelled me to take the child, to swear I would protect her with my life,” Mousesack continued quietly, also glancing up to smile softly at Calanthe. “But I did not need any dragon’s charm to make me agree. I took Pavetta into my arms and I felt…bound to this child, in ways I could not describe. I still cannot. I simply knew, in that moment, that my fate had always been tied to this moment. And I knew that the only way to truly protect Pavetta would be to save her mother’s life. So I did. It took us over a month to reach Temeria, and by then, I adored Pavetta as if she were my own. Calanthe never had to ask me to stay—but she’s also never asked me to leave, and it’s been this way ever since.”

He glanced back up at Eist, lifting his eyebrows slightly. “Eighteen years now. Doesn’t seem that long, most of the time—though sometimes, it seems like it’s been all my life. And now, today—for all the pain and misfortune surrounding it—I know why I was called to stay. Because Pavetta needs me, more than ever.”

Eist frowned at that.

“Whatever happened in the great hall today, it’s proof that Pavetta has inherited both her grandmother’s and her grandfather’s powers,” Mousesack explained. “All this time, we assumed that she was simply…human, mostly. Her mother may be half dragon, but Pavetta’s never shown any of the same side-effects or abilities. But today has shown us that she may be more powerful than any of us could ever imagine. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

There was a tinge of awe in his voice, Eist noted. Not fear or revulsion—no, if anything he seemed…proud of Pavetta, for possessing such power.

Eist wondered how Calanthe would feel about it all, once she was awake again.

There was a soft knock on the chamber door, and both men turned towards it in curiosity. Mousesack called out for the visitor to enter, and Vanielle’s face cautiously appeared. Again, she looked relieved at the sight of Eist.

“I shall speak with you,” she informed him, in her usual grammatically-stilted way. There was something worried dancing around the edges of her eyes, and Eist immediately rose to his feet, sparing a glance at Mousesack, who merely nodded and returned his attention to Calanthe.

Vanielle waited until they were in the hall, the door closed firmly behind Eist, before speaking again. “Has Lady Fiona warned the druid?”

“Warned him of what?” Eist frowned, feeling a bit lost.

Vanielle blinked quickly. Then she took Eist’s wrist and gently led him farther away, as if afraid of being overheard. “When Duny entered…what did you feel?”

Eist thought back to the moment the young man hand all but tumbled into the great hall—Calanthe’s instant reaction, the overwhelming sensation of _dragon_ , the pulsing of her rage.

Vanielle was watching his face carefully. Quietly, she prompted, “You felt it, too, didn’t you? The sudden…rising?”

He nodded. “Calanthe was very upset—”

“Yes, of course—she probably felt it far more keenly than we did.”

Eist realized he was missing something. Vanielle noted his reaction and her eyes widened.

“Ah.” She said simply. “She has not warned you, then.”

He thought back to Calanthe’s last words before she fell asleep: _It’s not alright, you don’t understand_ ….

“She tried, I think,” he admitted slowly. “But she didn’t actually say anything.”

“I wasn’t sure at first,” Vanielle spoke softly, her eyes darting around, as if double-checking that they were truly alone. “But when Duny entered the hall, you felt the aura of a dragon, did you not?”

“Yes,” Eist answered. His stomach began to twist with dread. “But I thought it was simply Calanthe—”

“I thought perhaps it was, too—that perhaps I was mistaken. But once you left with her, the aura lingered. It took me a while to truly make sure, but….” Vanielle’s eyes locked onto his, as serious and somber as she’d been when she’d warned against going to Velhad. “That man…he is a dragon, too.”

Eist felt the world tilt sideways.

Calanthe had spent most of Pavetta’s life, running away from the dragons. And they’d found her. He had to warn Mousesack, to—to what? Rush to wherever Duny was and attack him, hold him in chains until Calanthe awoke, avenge her in some way?

“Wait here,” he said simply, charging back into the bedchamber.

He didn’t know what to do. But he did know this: Calanthe’s people would protect her, or they’d die trying.

* * *

Calanthe slowly felt herself settling into her own body again—her left hand felt oddly clammy, and a beat later, she realized it was because Eist’s hands were still around it, still holding her however he could. Warm affection blossomed in her chest, and tears sprang in her eyes at the thought.

Still here. He was still here. She wasn’t left to fight alone.

She flexed her fingers, trying to reassure him. She heard him shift, could practically feel how keenly he was watching her, anxious to see that she was truly alright.

It was still a bit too bright in the room. She wasn’t quite ready to open her eyes. She cleared her throat, quietly stating, “Come lie next to me.”

Eist did not have to be asked twice—he was on his feet, moving around to the other side of the bed to lay down and gently wrap his arm around her. She made a small noise and curled slightly into him, burrowing her head under his chin.

“Mousesack is with Pavetta and the others,” he informed her, his voice still soft and searching, as if he feared overwhelming her. “We—Vanielle figured out what you were trying to warn us about.”

Fuck it all, she was becoming quite indebted to that weird little Sphinx, she realized.

“How long—how long have I been asleep?” She felt more rejuvenated now, feeling the solidness of his body next to hers, the steady pulse of his jugular against her forehead, the slow pull of his breathing—it was more curative than the actual herbs Mousesack had given her. The relief that came from simply being held by Eist—how had she survived so long without it? How could she ever survive without it, ever again?

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I haven’t kept track of the time. I’ve simply…been waiting.”

She made a small sound, shifting to place a gentle kiss against his neck. _I’m here now, the wait is over._

“Mousesack knows about Duny,” Eist clarified. “And Tissaia as well. They’re keeping a watchful eye on Pavetta; she’s safe now. And on Duny, too. But…we agreed not to do anything until you awoke. It should…be your decision.”

Tears tightened her throat again. She grasped his doublet, rolling onto her side fully and pulling him closer into her.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

He merely held her tighter and kissed the top of her head.

They stayed like that for several minutes, simply listening to each other’s breathing and relishing the reassurance of being together again. Then, quietly, she spoke, “I think it’s time you hear the rest of the story.”

He held her just a bit tighter. Quietly decreed, “If you truly wish to share it.”

She nodded. “Yes. Yes, I want you to know everything. I _need_ you to know everything.”

Eist shifted, getting them into slightly more comfortable positions. Calanthe kept her head against his shoulder, letting her fingertips trace over the intricate designs of his borrowed doublet.

She began, as best she could. Told him of killing her mother with her birth, of being considered a creature of sin by her nursemaid—though the woman was too afraid to kill her, too afraid of the dragon's retaliation. Told him of growing up alone and locked away in Hochebuz, of the overly-attentive tutor and the smarmy priest and the voice.

She could feel the way his body tensed during the more emotionally painful parts, the way his hand kept steadily rubbing her back as she told her story—how his touch would become a little stronger, a little more grounding, during the tougher parts. Her heart swelled with love and adoration for this man, who simply listened and yet spoke volumes while he did.

She told him about the night she killed the dragon. He dipped his head forward, and she could hear the uneven breaths he took, how much he hurt and worried for her, even though he was so keenly aware that she’d survived.

She took a beat, after that part. Took a moment to breath. Eist wrapped her in his arms so tightly and kissed her temple with such fierce compassion that she wanted to weep—she’d only ever told this story twice before, but she’d never wanted to cry while doing so until now. Perhaps because she’d never been greeted with such tenderness and grace during the recitation.

Eist’s head swam as he processed this new information. He also did the math—she’d only been fifteen, and Pavetta was nineteen to her current forty-three. Pavetta’s father came long after the dragon’s death. That had to be a good sign.

Then Calanthe shifted in his arms again, taking a deep breath and continuing. “Then came the strangeness. You see, somehow, I fell asleep—or passed out from exhaustion, most likely. When I awoke, I was no longer in the corridor with a dead dragon before me. I was in my bed, completely cleaned up and redressed, and told that I was suffering from a horrible fever, and had been for days. When I tried to talk about the dragon—to tell the truth, to ask questions—I was told that it must have been a dream. There was no dragon, no one had ever found me in the corridor, none of it had ever occurred. And, at first…I believed them.”

She felt another measure of shame—at how easily she’d believed her nursemaid, who’d called her insane and told her that she truly was becoming her mother, spouting such fantastical tales. How easily she gave trust to those who’d done nothing but revile and betray her, from the hour of her birth.

“But then, when I felt a little better, I looked at my leg—where the dragon’s tail had struck me, during the struggle. There was still a huge, purplish bruise. I knew then that it had been real, and for whatever reason, they’d chosen to lie to me. So I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t ask any more questions, and I swore to myself that in the end, I would be free of the place, as soon as I could. The years passed, and things seemed…quiet. Then, before my eighteenth birthday, a group of men arrived at Hochebuz. They were sent by my grandfather, the king—at least, that is what they said—and they were charged with finding me a suitable husband. Now, all my life, no one had ever thought to mention that I was, technically, next in line for the throne—I think there had long been machinations to ensure that I was never queen, from the moment of my conception, given my mother’s history. But regardless of whether or not I became queen, it was imperative that I still continued the royal line. Interestingly enough, not many available young men were eager to marry a bastard princess tucked away in the wilds of nowhere, with no real title or power to her name. Or at least that was what I was told—looking back, those men were searching for the right person. And eventually, they found him.”

She closed her eyes, thinking of her former husband. When Roegner of Ebbing had ridden into the gates of Hochebuz, her silly, stupid little heart had sung—he was handsome, dashing, and even atop a white horse, a sure sign that he would truly save her from the lonely misery of her existence. While she’d easily understood the wiles of men who feigned concern and gentleness, she had never experienced what it truly meant to be charmed and seduced—and oh, Roegner had certainly excelled in that. He looked at her with shining eyes and called her beautiful, a paragon of perfection.

The only other person who had complimented her so deeply had been her sire. She should have noticed that, should have remembered. But he was suave and he smiled so beautifully, and she was still a young girl who had never left the walls of her castle. Her naivete had been painstakingly cultivated, and he was, in this regard, a gardener of exceptional skill. She could never truly blame herself for falling so easily, when she’d never known such a trap existed.

“Even if I had not been charmed by Roegner’s ways, I still would have married him,” she admitted softly. “I had no choice—I was told, again and again, that I had no choice. No one else wanted a half-mad princess who claimed to have killed a dragon, who was potentially some monstrous half-breed herself. I had a duty to fulfill, as a princess of the House of Raven, and Roegner was my only option to fulfill it—and didn’t I _want_ to be sensible and dutiful, to prove that I wasn’t like my awful mother?”

Eist felt yet another surge of anger in his chest. These men, these people entrusted with the care and safety of a young girl, only to manipulate her so cruelly—oh, what he would do to them, if ever he chanced across their paths.

“So I married him. And…things were happy, in the beginning.” There was something soft and almost-nostalgic in Calanthe’s voice, and it only made Eist’s heart hurt all the more. “The men left, once Roegner became the lord of Hochebuz. It felt like another measure of freedom had been granted—he let me do as I pleased, for the most part, and I found that Hochebuz was suddenly bearable, with the right person. He never made me feel trapped—he took me out riding, and hawking, and gave me more freedom than I’d ever experienced. He was certain that within a few years, my grandfather would move us to Cintra’s capitol, and so there was no need to live elsewhere until then. It seemed…logical, and so possible, when he said it. So we stayed.”

Her mind wandered for a bit. Yes, everything had been so bright and free at first. Her charming savior, who swooped in and found her worthy and wonderful, who filled her nights with passion and her days with open-aired freedom. How could she not adore him? How could she see beyond the gilded bars of her cage, when the gilding shone so brightly and beautifully?

“There were…well, of course, we tried for children.” For some reason, this part felt odd—sharing it with Eist, sharing this dream that she no longer wished for, this remnant of her long-departed life. “There were two pregnancies, before Pavetta. But my womb was too weak, the physicians said. I always wondered if it was the dragon within me, somehow incapable of fully nurturing a life. But then, finally, after nearly five years, Pavetta was born. And she was…the most perfect little creature I’ve ever seen.”

Now, she felt a new wave of tears—but these were softer, happier. It had been nearly two decades, yet she still remembered with absolute clarity the first cry, the first moment of her daughter, still covered in blood and birth and wailing at the world, being put into her arms. The sudden overwhelming ferocity in her veins, the instant promise that she’d give her life to protect this child, to ensure her life was not nearly as awful as her own.

Eist was rubbing comforting circles into her back again, giving her another small kiss on the top of her head. It was nice, simply relishing the sweet memory while having the present comfort of his touch and affection.

“A year…a year after her birth, the voice returned.”

Eist’s entire body went still. Confusion rippled through his mind. Calanthe must have understood easily enough, because she added, “I know. I had believed that he was dead and gone, too. For ten years. But he returned and I…I learned that everything, from the arrival of those men, had been all his doing. You see, the dragon—this one, at least—was…or I suppose _is_ , very good at bending people to his will. It’s why…why I assumed that I compelled you, so completely. It’s…my heritage, in a way.”

Tears flooded Eist’s eyes at the thought—that she could survive all this terror and torture and believe, even in the smallest of ways, that she could ever be like the ones who tormented her. He thought back to Velhad, the soft and hurting way that she quietly asked him never to call her a dragon again, even in jest—oh, he’d had no idea just how deeply such simple words had wounded her, not truly, not until now, when he understood exactly what he had been comparing her to.

“The dragon promises you anything you desire— _everything_ you desire—if only you swear your allegiance to him. He speaks of heralding a new age, where a dragon rules the earth and those who have served him loyally shall be kings and masters in their own right. He promised to make me an empress, to give me absolute control over everything and everyone but himself. And if that had ever been something I truly wanted, perhaps I would have followed him. Those men—power-hungry, weak arseholes who wanted to feel like absolute little demi-gods—were more than eager to fulfill his wishes on the paltry promises he gave. But I…I saw him, Eist. He was no great dragon. He could not do what he promised—not without a lot of aid and support. And not without…a gate."

Now Calanthe frowned, as she tried to explain. In truth, she barely understood her sire's grand designs, either. But she'd learned enough, over the years. "There are realms beyond ours, Eist, with monsters far greater. The dragon is convinced that if he could open a gate between those realms, he could use the power to rule ours. But he does not have the power to control those monsters; he's far too small and weak. Still, the men who followed him—the ones who follow him still—genuinely believe that he does, and that one day, he will be victorious, and in turn, so will they.”

“So the men who made you marry Roegner….” Eist couldn’t bring himself to truly finish the thought aloud.

Still, Calanthe made a noise of affirmation. “They were not acting on the king’s behalf. And they chose Roegner because he, too, believed that by wedding the dragon’s daughter, he would have a higher place in the new order. After I realized that it had all been a lie—that I was still being controlled by my father, in every way—I…I left.”

She hesitated, in a way that made Eist realize there was more to the story. He felt her shifting in his arms, taking another long, uneasy breath.

“Before I did, I killed Roegner and burned all of Hochebuz to the ground.”

There it was. And honestly, he felt nothing but pride for the woman. It had hurt, hearing of her younger self, so easily manipulated and so deeply wounded. To know that in the end, she came out triumphant and stronger than before—it helped ease the ache, a little. He held her tighter again, bringing his hand up to the back of her head and holding her in place as he left little kisses across her forehead. He felt her melt against him again (she’d truly feared his reaction, as if she didn’t know how completely he loved her, as if he hadn’t already absolved her of murder and chaos so many times before, as if hearing that she took control of her own fate would be reason to mourn rather than to celebrate and rejoice at her freedom).

Now, Eist knew where the dots connected, “And then you met Mousesack and came to Temeria?”

She hummed at that, wrapping her arms around him and nuzzling further into him. It felt softly wondrous, finally having no true secrets left. There were still parts of her story currently untold—but all the most important parts, all the biggest parts that made her who she was, were revealed and met with nothing less than grace.

“We came to Temeria. I became the baroness and eventually Tissaia came to stay, as well. She taught me about my powers—I had never realized I had any, because no one had ever told me, and I had never had anyone to truly confide in. I assumed that everything I did…was normal. How was I to know? One can only see the world with their own eyes.”

Now Eist gave a small hum of understanding. After all, it was much like the story of his own heritage—they had said his mother was a siren, and what reason did he have to disbelief it? He’d accepted it and moved on, not thinking much about it and rearranging the coincidences of his life to match up to the narrative he'd been given.

“When did you become a hunter?” He asked quietly.

“A few years later.” There was another slight pause. Then, she added, “I started out…hunting a different sort of monster. I tried to find every person who’d been a part of my captivity, even my childhood nursemaid. I knew as long as they lived, Pavetta and I would remain in danger. Eventually, I turned my attention to finding the dragon. I…have not succeeded yet.”

The thought brought him back to the current situation—now he understood completely why she’d reacted so vehemently, so viciously and swiftly. “So when Duny arrived, you felt the dragon within him—”

“And knew I had to kill him, to save my daughter from the same fate I’ve been avoiding for nearly three decades, yes.” She held him a bit tighter, taking another breath, as if drawing strength from his frame. In a barely audible tone, she added, “I will have to kill him, still.”

Eist merely rubbed her back and kissed the top of her head again. Already forgiving her for the crime, she realized.

“So you believe he’s a part of this…faction?” Eist wasn’t sure of the right word, wasn’t sure if there was a word for this vile collection of humans and their chosen overlord.

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Calanthe informed him flatly. “Over the years, the dragon has tried to find me. Even if I can no longer bear his children—I made sure of that, well enough—he will not be satisfied until he has triumphed over me in some way. Most likely through my death. Though the feeling is mutual, so I do not begrudge him that, at least.”

Eist made a small noise of understanding—and even in that small noise, she knew that he wished for her sire’s death, just as vehemently. More than anything, she was struck by the fact that he’d accepted her decision to kill Duny, without a beat of hesitation. He trusted her. He didn’t question her sanity or her grip on reality.

It was why she trusted him. Why she’d always trusted him. He was one of the few people upon this earth who hadn’t tried to manipulate her. He’d always welcomed her whims and her chaos, and had never sought to curb them or control them in the slightest. He’d only made her question herself in the best of ways, in the ways that made them stronger, in the ways that made her better understand her own self and her powers. He bound himself to her and gave her absolute, genuine freedom at the same time.

She felt a sudden surge of emotion. She needed him to know, to truly understand the depth of her own devotion in turn. For the first time, she pushed herself to sit up fully, to look into his eyes. “That is—there is something I want you to know—that I _need_ you to know. I do not…trust lightly. Yet I have never doubted you, or your character. I have always known, in some way, the measure of your character. And I have always trusted you, in some way. And you are the only one—when we became more than mere friends, I knew that I could trust you completely, in ways that I could not—and have not—trusted another since Roegner.”

She was looking down at him with such earnestness that it stopped his heart entirely. He understood fully the gift she’d given him in this moment—she may not have always been able to admit how she felt towards him, even to herself, but she’d always known he was good and kind and only invested in her safety. She’d truly had every reason to wary of every person who’d crossed her path, but she’d always trusted him.

Her eyes were filling with tears as she added, “It’s why, on the night of the full moon, I knew you wouldn’t hurt me. Because I _know_ , Eist. I know that you could never…you would never, no matter what—”

A sharp, painful sound jerked through her throat, and her vision was blurred entirely by her tears. Eist’s arms were around her again, pulling her back into him, letting her rest on his chest as she simply sobbed, still shaking with all the things she couldn’t quite voice.

After Roegner, there had never been another lover, another partner in her bed. It had been too great a risk, too much chance of being manipulated and controlled again. Even after Tissaia had made her barren, the fear had remained. She roamed the continent, always vigilant of whomever crossed her path, whomever seemed too interested, too keen and invested in getting to know her.

Eist Tuirseach had always been her marked exception. He’d always been such a good thing, a pure soul who only played and made her joyful, who never gave her reason to fear or doubt his intentions, even when she barely knew him. And yet, from the moment of their meeting, it had seemed as if she _did_ know him, in the way that truly mattered.

She had told herself that her attraction had been his charms, but she’d also admitted that she willingly fell to them—fell because she knew it was safe to fall, because there was no danger in the way he pulled her deeper.

Even now, he called her into him, and all he did was give her a safe, soft place to land. She wept all the harder, unbelievably grateful and overwhelmed that, despite all the sourness of her life, she’d still been given this man and his love.

She would cure him, she promised herself. He was a miracle, and she would be his miracle in turn.

Eist’s chest tumbled with competing emotions. He felt grateful that she’d fully trusted him, that she’d given him the story of her life, even as it hurt to hear it. He felt angry at the people who’d come before, who’d done nothing to protect her—who instead offered her up as a sacrifice to some monster, eager to destroy her for the slightest chance at power and prestige. He felt aching and sad at how she’d lived in self-imposed exile, how she’d been unable to truly have a life filled with all the delights and joys that she so deeply deserved—and yes, now, he regretted that she didn’t have a string of lovers, years and years of people who’d made her feel worthy and loved and desired and good. He felt an odd sense of calmness, knowing that the moment she had a chance, she would try to kill the young man who’d stumbled into the great hall this afternoon—and in turn, a sort of disjointed dazedness at his own nonchalant acceptance.

But it was the same as when she’d confessed to killing Stelen. He knew, beyond all doubt, that she wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t warranted. He would not dare look at her life’s story and tell her that she was overreacting, when a young half-dragon entered her life, determined to wed her daughter. He would not be like those who’d tried to convince her that the dragon didn’t exist, that she hadn’t survived the harrowing fight against him.

No, he believed her. He believed _in_ her.

“I trust you, too,” he said simply, pushing past the tears tightening his throat. “And I will walk by your side, whatever path you choose.”

Her body shook even more at his affirmation, and he simply held her tighter, letting her take the time she needed to release all the emotion rattling inside her.

No one had ever given her that—such absolute trust and faith. Not even Mousesack. There had been a time, when she’d begun to hunt the ones responsible for her torments, that Mousesack had bitterly opposed her decision, and they’d fought endlessly over it. Once she’d returned, face still stained with ash and soot from burning her nursemaid alive inside her own hut, the druid had wearily accepted that she would not be swayed from her course. Things were cold between them for quite some time afterwards. They eventually mended the rift between them, though the truth remained: he had accepted her choice, but he did not condone it. There was a difference, and it created a difference in their relationship as well.

Once again, Eist was entirely a creature of his own kind, entirely different from anyone she’d ever known. He was, as always, miraculous.

She lightly placed her hand over his heart—that precious, wonderful, loving heart—and smiled softly as his hand came to cover hers. She sat up again, simply looking at him with tear-stained adoration.

“Should we let the others know that you have recovered?” He asked quietly, his beautiful blue eyes searching her face.

She leaned in, softly capturing his mouth into a kiss. “In a moment.”

His hand tightened its grip on hers, gently encouraging her. She kissed him again, breaking away to brush her nose against his.

She closed her eyes, taking a heavy breath. “I do not know how to face Pavetta, just yet. She may never forgive me, for what I must do to protect her.”

Eist made a soft noise of compassioned understanding. His hand came up to cup the side of her face. “She loves you, Calanthe. Even a blind man can see the bond of affection between you. It may take time, but she will forgive you.”

“She knows nothing of the dragon,” Calanthe admitted quietly. “She knows that we fled Cintra, and that we have changed identities—but I have…not told her the whole truth of it. She knows nothing of her father, nothing of the dragon’s attempts to find us again, nothing of how I have…tried to keep us safe. She knows that I am half-dragon, and that I go out to slay monsters. But everything else, I have tried to keep from her, to keep her…happier than I was, at her age.”

There was a beat as Calanthe considered her next words. “Perhaps…it is time to tell her. Perhaps it will help her understand. But she is so young—and to be in love, at that age, it is its own sort of madness. One that cannot be easily cured.”

Eist smiled softly. Yes, to be nineteen and in love—there was a certain sort of overwhelming insanity to it all, back then. A pitch and tempo that flooded the world, it seemed.

“She will understand,” he assured her. “Maybe not right away, but she will, eventually. She is a bright, intelligent girl—much like her mother.”

She hummed at that, smiling slightly. “She also bears her mother’s temper and stubbornness.”

He chuckled. “Then if nothing else, at least is shall be an interesting time ahead of us.”

She merely looked at him, a warm affection filling her features. After a long, weighted beat, she quietly decreed, “I do not know what I did to deserve you, Eist Tuirseach. But I shall thank the stars until my dying breath that somehow, you are here with me.”

He had no words, to give in response. Instead, he let his hand slip to the back of her neck, pulling her into another kiss.

Calanthe still felt a measure of worry, at what must come next. And yet, she still felt the solidness of Eist’s faith, the knowing certainty that no matter what, he would be beside her.

For the first time in her life, she would not fight the dragon alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the next 2-3 days, there will be daily updates. Just FYI.


	29. The Way of Family

Mousesack and Tissaia were stationed outside Pavetta’s chambers—they both shifted to attention as Calanthe and Eist approached.

“She’s resting,” Tissaia informed her. “It was…quite draining for her, unleashing her power like that.”

“One of the many things we will discuss, I assure you.” Calanthe took a beat to level a firm gaze at each of them. “But first we’re going to start with: where the hell is Duny, and how the fuck did this fucking happen?”

“He’s in the garden.” Mousesack gently motioned upwards. Eist assumed there must be a rooftop garden, based on the gesture. “We have not given him any reason to suspect that we know of his…nature.”

“Where’s Vanielle?” Eist felt a prickle of worry.

“In her chambers, resting as well,” Tissaia supplied. She turned her attention back to Calanthe. “As for how this happened—we were just as astounded by the news as you—”

“You are here to protect her,” Calanthe hissed, taking a step forward. “You bound this entire keep with all your fancy spells and incantations—how did a fucking dragon, of all creatures, get past your notice?”

“We are still trying to figure that out,” Tissaia admitted.

“A year, Tissaia,” Calanthe growled again. “A fucking _year_ —”

“During which you were also present, for large amounts of time,” Tissaia shot back coolly. She arched a brow. “So perhaps some of that anger should be placed a little closer to your own feet, Lady Fiona.”

For a flash, Eist thought Calanthe was going to round on her. But surprisingly, she didn’t. She merely stepped back, looking at the shorter woman down the full length of her nose, the threat still unmistakable ( _I could tear you to shreds, but I won’t…for now_ ).

Mousesack delicately interrupted, “I think, at this point, perhaps it is best to focus on the present, and the future, rather than the mistakes of the past.”

Both women turned their attention to him.

“Yes,” Calanthe agreed flatly. “I suppose so.”

“I hesitate to ask—what exactly do you intend to do?” Mousesack’s expression filled with unease.

Yes, the druid knew her well, Eist thought. And he also finally understood what the man had meant earlier, when he’d said that they’d grown into people who could not love each other in such a way—he could not love her wholly, not for her true self. He recoiled, in some small measure, at the depth of her nature.

Eist knew that Calanthe saw the recoil, too. He merely placed his hand on the small of her back, gently reassuring her: _whatever path you choose, I will walk it with you_.

Calanthe had to dip her head slightly, a bit overwhelmed by the silent show of support. She’d always fought her battles alone, and more often than not pushed against the advice and opinions of Tissaia and Mousesack, even if she eventually realized their wisdom—it meant the world to her, to simply have someone who had no opinion, who felt nothing other than absolute faith that whatever decision she made, it would be one worth following.

Still. She would prove that her decision truly _was_ worth following. For Eist’s sake, as much as Pavetta’s.

“I will simply talk to him, first,” she announced, surprisingly even herself, a bit. She glanced over at Eist, offering a small smile of reassurance. “And I will do it alone.”

He merely nodded. Again, the absolute faith of his small gesture was enough to make her heart sing.

Trusting him had been the greatest decision of her life, she thought to herself. She would endeavor to prove the same for him.

* * *

Calanthe stopped at the stone archway leading into the rooftop garden, taking a moment to steel herself. The familiar scent of citrus trees greeted her, their blossoms heavy and sweet in the warmth of the summer evening.

That was the one thing she’d wanted recreated here, from her life in Hochebuz. The fruit trees. The beautiful and winding garden that had been her solace and her sanctuary for many an afternoon, in her childhood and early adulthood. Tissaia had bewitched the garden to be far warmer and far more humid than the Temerian highlands actually were.

Not for the first time, Calanthe wondered exactly why Tissaia had always been so accommodating. She was beginning to suspect her reasons, given Pavetta’s display of power this afternoon. Perhaps enchanters could sense that sort of thing, much like she could sense other half-breeds.

On that note, she set out to find the other dragon in her garden.

Duny was seated on a stone bench near the fountain, as relaxed and nonchalant as if nothing had ever happened. He smiled when she approached.

That was when she knew beyond all doubt that he was sent by her father. Still, she quelled the rage boiling in her stomach and tried to remain calm. She felt a measure of pride to see the dried blood on his neck, where her blade had at least broken the skin.

“You seem recovered,” he announced, quite genially.

“As do you,” she returned, suddenly feeling a bit breathless. She didn’t spend much time around other dragons—half-blood or otherwise—and she’d forgotten how oddly it felt across her skin. She felt coiling and snappish, territorial and desperate to dominate. Like pit vipers tumbled too tightly together in a basket.

If Duny felt the same, he hid it remarkably well.

“Shall we make peace, for Pavetta’s sake?” He asked, surprising her with the sudden directness.

“I do not know yet,” she admitted, her throat feeling tighter with every passing beat. “It depends on how much of your betrothal is truly for her sake.”

He smiled again at that. She wanted to rip the skin from his face. He was far too satisfied, far too triumphant.

“Everything I do is for her sake,” he answered. “And for yours—and for mine. After all, that is the way of family, is it not?”

Her skin tightened and flushed with heat at his words. He watched her with lazy curiosity, the smugness in his expression building as he noted her reddening skin.

“Did you truly think you were the only one, little princess?” He rose to his feet now, taking slow, measured steps towards her. Her skin rippled and her lungs rumbled in response, before she could even think to control her reaction. Still, he moved closer, leaning in to taunt. “Our father has many children, Calanthe. You were never as special as you thought—you may have been the first, but you are not the last.”

He took a beat to cast a distasteful glance down the length of her form. “As if a dynasty of fire and blood would rest solely upon such a thin, unstable thread.”

Somehow, the remark cut, and she swelled with hurt and further anger.

“You have your place and your purpose, no doubt,” he assured her, his tone patronizingly sweet. “And had you not run away from your destiny—had you not defied our father like the selfish, petulant, spoiled brat that you are—you would have a far more glorious place as the mother of the gate, empress of the new age. But you so sorely forfeited that honor.”

He spat the last words at her, and she couldn’t help the slight smirk that curled at the corner of her mouth—if anyone were acting like a petulant child, it was this man, who couldn’t have even been more than a mere babe when she’d attempted to kill their sire. He saw her wry amusement, and his fury only deepened.

“You have not won,” he informed her, all but hissing. “You tried to outrun the dragon, and he has found you, as always. Pavetta is far more powerful than you could ever be, and she shall be our creator of chaos, destroyer of worlds—”

“ _My_ daughter will be no pawn of yours—or anyone’s, for that matter,” Calanthe bit back, stepping forward aggressively. They were so close, now—she saw the way Duny rippled in response, his shoulders jerking back as if restraining himself from attacking outright (so he _did_ feel it, too—she could manipulate him, just as easily as he affected and irritated her, she could use it to her advantage, to throw him off-kilter). She pushed herself to lean further in, letting her voice turn to gravel. “You are nothing more than a pathetic half-breed—some poor, pitiful second attempt at recreating _me_ , and I assure you, I am without equal. My mother may have been mad, but I am madder still—and I will tear you limb from limb before I ever let you near my daughter again.”

Now Duny relaxed, smiling so sweetly. Fear instantly pricked through her gut like a knife.

“My good lady." He added even more honey to his tone. “I need not ever see your daughter again. Unlike you, I know my place amongst the grand design—and I accept it, whole heartedly. I had but one charge, and I have already most wondrously completed it.”

Confusion rippled into the dread. Calanthe shifted back slightly. But Duny leaned in, close enough to let his lips brush against her ear as he whispered, “She is already mother of the gate, even now.”

Calanthe’s entire body froze. Duny stepped back, obviously enjoying the look of terror and dismay up on her face.

“I had feared that perhaps her offspring would not be as powerful as one created by you and our father—but given today’s little demonstration, I daresay our child will eclipse anything that could have been created by you.”

Calanthe felt her stomach clench, felt the bile in her throat. She couldn’t breathe. The world felt too off-kilter, too heavy around her.

He held out his hands, still so achingly gleeful and smug. “So do what you will, dear sister. Do your worst—mine is already done, and it will outshine anything you attempt. We both know it.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But we will not know for certain until we try.”

She acted quickly, knocking his legs out from under him and bringing him to his knees as she moved behind him, locking her right arm around his throat. His hands flailed, smacking and scrabbling against her face and shoulders, but she focused on keeping her grip, clenching her right wrist with her left hand and using it to pull her arm tighter, shaking and pushing all of her rage against his stuttering throat.

He was so weak, really. Never one who truly trained for war or fighting—certainly not one who’d earned his strength through killing dragons. Her pride rose and she began to laugh breathlessly as she held on, turning her head to the side to avoid his swatting hands again.

Her pulse was humming, singing with delight at bloodshed and chaos again. Yes, she was created for exactly this, to destroy and to dominate, even amongst her own kind. Dragons did not live in packs, and this was why—they were creatures incapable of peace, even amongst themselves.

“Some dragon you are,” she spat. “Just as _weak_ as your father—”

She barely turned in time to see the flash of a blade. She stuttered to the side as Duny tried to swing behind himself to strike her. He still caught her, barely, at the top of her arm—it was distraction enough to loosen her grip, just enough for him to break free from her hold. He fell forward, gasping for air as Calanthe stumbled to the side, trying to right herself to attack again. Duny turned quickly, brandishing his knife.

“I thought I could do what I liked,” she pointed out, between heavy, panting breaths (but oh, she was just getting started—she’d leave this garden covered in his blood, of that she was certain).

He laughed mirthlessly at that. “I never said I wouldn’t do as I liked, in turn.”

Fair enough, she decided. Still, she warned him, “You seduced my daughter—that is an offense I could forgive, if it had not been done maliciously. You have lied to her, used her goodness against her, and in turn will break her heart—all for the grand scheme of some lesser beast with no true might, all to force my daughter into a hellish role against her will. And _that_ , you wretch, is unforgiveable. I will have your heart between my teeth for it.”

He laughed again. “You can try—”

She needed no further invitation. She lunged for him again, ramming squarely into his chest and toppling him back onto the ground, before he truly had any time to react with his blade. He gave a cry of pain—his leg or his ankle was twisted the wrong way beneath him, Calanthe could tell simply from the way his body shifted. But she was far more focused on keeping her hands on his left wrist, trying to disable the blade in his hand.

She had no choice, really—she bit his wrist, as hard as she could, until she tasted blood, and then kept going. He screamed and writhed beneath her. Laughter bubbled in her lungs, chaotic and unhinged. Her teeth had ached for blood, from the moment she'd stepped out into the garden and sensed his true motives for certain. It felt divine, giving her nature what it craved.

Well, they were all so damned set on making her the creator of chaos, the destroyer of worlds, were they not? Let them see the chaos she could create, the destruction she could bring upon their little world. She would embrace the charge they gave her—and show them exactly what they wanted, entirely on her own terms.

His other hand was in her hair, pulling hard enough to make her eyes sting. She bit down all the more, easily working the knife handle from his grasp.

She could feel it, the moment he knew that he’d lost. Felt the odd ripple through his body as he realized that he’d been beaten. She went for his lungs, jamming the blade hard and fast between his ribs and using her other hand to hold his throat, to keep him from writhing too much as she looked down at him. His blood was still dripping down her chin and she relished it, knowing that his last vision in this world would be her, victorious and defiant above him.

“Do you know, I stabbed the dragon just like this, too?” She asked, trying to regain enough control to sound saccharine and patronizing. Gods above, it was not easy, fighting in a corset—how much harder the breaths came. “How’s that for a place in the glorious design?”

He was turning purplish-red with rage again, and it only made her laugh even more. But she was not done twisting the knife, neither literally or metaphorically.

She leaned in, tightening her grip on his throat as she whispered, “Here is your destiny: that child will die, ere it leaves my daughter’s womb. You will have accomplished nothing, died for nothing, and be as inconsequential as you ever were, another lesser beast, like your wretched creator. The dragon will not remember you, nor will Pavetta, after a season. Even I will forget this day—because you are but a moment’s annoyance. We may be children of the same sire, but I alone am the harbinger. I am without equal, the creator of chaos and the destroyer of worlds. I will choose which chaos is created, and whose world shall be destroyed _. I. Will. Choose_.”

He stuttered beneath her as she twisted the knife, pushing in a bit deeper. She sat back, just enough to fully watch his face.

“You did your worst,” she reminded him, widening her eyes with patronizing indulgence. “And so did I. As always—mine was better.”

Now he gave an odd, gurgling laugh. “It’s—too late—to stop it. Your mage…she knew. She…helped. And Pavetta will fight for my son. She will…hate you forever.”

She tightened her grip around his throat and did not let go until long after the light left his eyes and the last breath left his lungs, gurgling out of his mouth with blood and foam.

She had learned from her mistakes—she took out the blade and cut his throat fully, just to be sure. Then she gingerly crawled from atop him, bracing on her hands and knees to vomit up bile onto the gravel pathway of the garden.

Pavetta. Pregnant. With a dragon’s child. Well, not a full-blooded dragon—but still, dragon enough, with Pavetta’s apparent-and-currently-uncertain power added in. Calanthe may have removed herself from the board, but the dragon had all-too-easily changed pawns and continued his game.

Tissaia. Helping the dragon. Betraying her, betraying the charge she’d taken to protect Pavetta from harm. Had this always been her plan? Had she always been on the dragon’s side? Had Calanthe placed her daughter’s safety in the hands of someone who was always going to forfeit it?

Her stomach lurched again. All this time, she’d tried so hard to protect Pavetta. And yet—she’d literally allowed her own life’s story to repeat itself, she realized with sudden, painfully-startling clarity. A forgotten princess, confined to a castle. Beguiled by a charming man, treated like nothing more than a broodmare for some grand destiny concocted by a pathetic, simpering little dragon.

She’d never been able to escape her fate—or her father’s plans. They were all just pawns in the dragon’s grand design. By denying her own place, she’d forced it upon her own daughter.

A child. How long? Was it too late to still the quickening womb? She knew better than most how little time there was to remove a pregnancy before the roots were too deeply set.

Her head spun and her stomach roiled again. There was such certainty in Duny’s tone—if he had not been sure, then he would not have given away such information. He wouldn’t have risked her doing exactly what she’d threatened to do…unless he’d known that it was too far gone to undo. Would she have to wait until the birth, the take the child in the dead of night and do away with it? For all the strength and cruelty she possessed, would she be able to perform this particular act of violence, knowing how it would wreck her daughter’s heart? In an attempt to spare Pavetta from falling into the trap completely, could she bring herself to do the one thing that would forever create a rift between her and the one she loved more than anyone else in the world?

She knew the answer, even as it rippled with fear and revulsion through her veins. She loved Pavetta, beyond all measure. More than anything, she needed Pavetta’s continued safety and survival— _let her hate and revile, let her never forgive or forget, but oh, let her live, free of the dragon’s clutches and machinations. I will sacrifice any love she may have for me, in honor of my love for her and my promise to keep her safe, from the moment of her birth. Let her live a hundred years, and let her hate me for every moment of them, but oh, let her live, let her be free. If losing her love is my penance, I will gladly pay it, to save her from repeating my life and its calamities._

She glanced over at Duny’s lifeless form.

He was right, in one regard: once Pavetta learned what she’d done, she’d never be forgiven. She supposed she didn’t deserve to be.


	30. Another Noose

**The Royal Court at Vizima, Temeria.**

“And this is…truly what you want?” Tissaia de Vries asked, looking down at her again.

Calanthe nodded quickly, lightly pressing her hands over her stomach as she kneeled before the sorceress. “I cannot…I _will_ not live with the fear of bearing another child.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. The last one had nearly killed her—there had been another pregnancy, after Pavetta. One that she’d sought to uproot, once she’d learned the truth of Roegner’s betrayal and left Hochebuz for good. The remedy she’d taken was little more than poison. It had pushed the lump of tissue out of her, to be sure, but she’d nearly bled to death, shaking and sweating with a fever as she’d vomited even the smallest drink of water back up. Her breasts had dried up and Pavetta had begun crying of hunger—that had been Calanthe’s last surety of keeping her daughter alive, given that she knew nothing of how to survive in the wild and rarely found food for them. If Mousesack had not found her when he did, they surely would have become nothing more than a pile of bones beneath a tree in Hochebuz Forest.

She could not take that chance again. It had been nearly a year since escaping Hochebuz and assuming her alias as the Baroness of Ard Carraigh, but she did not trust the dragon to take too long in finding her. It did not help that Foltest sought to marry her off, despite her attempts to dissuade him (and yes, she knew that the only reason he hadn’t already handed her over to a nobleman was because of the way he still looked upon her, on the rare occasions that she came to his court—and yes, she used it to her advantage, chose her dresses with careful consideration, kept her eyes wide and pleading, played upon every charm she possessed to keep his interest just high enough to hesitate throwing away a potential chance of his own to enjoy her before marrying her off). She still had no proof that he was not also in league with the dragon—or that he could easily be swayed to join the dragon’s cause, should the dragon seek him out. The man certainly had enough vanity to be tempted with more power, that much she knew.

Tissaia merely stared at her for another beat. Quietly, she pointed out, “You may find, in time, that you wish to bear children again. With another husband.”

She shook her head vehemently. “No. I would never—there will be no more husbands, no more…suitors of any kind.”

Again, Tissaia’s face filled with gentle curiosity. “Then why worry over becoming with child again?”

Now Calanthe’s cheeks flushed as she looked away. She hadn’t shared every detail of her story. Certainly not the detail of how a dragon could compel obedience, if it chose to. She did not know if she would have the chance, or even the strength, to withstand the dragon again—if he ever came for her again, he would be far too cautious, far too wary to make the same mistake twice. She may not be able to control her own body, once he commanded it—but she could control certain aspects for now and always, with a little help from this sorceress.

Still, she felt Tissaia awaiting some form of answer. Quietly, she pointed out, “Not all children are…created in love and joy.”

The sorceress merely hummed. Her fingertips came under Calanthe’s chin, directing her gaze back to meet her own.

“It is a curse that has no cure,” Tissaia said seriously. “Once I give it, it cannot ever be undone.”

Calanthe took a beat to merely look into her eyes, to let her see how deeply she wanted this, how deeply she understood and accepted the charge.

After a beat, Tissaia stepped back. “I require something in return.”

Calanthe felt a measure of unease. Of course, she should have known there would be some sort of cost. No one ever offered assistance for free (except Mousesack, and she had her suspicions about him, truth be told). Still, she kept her expression neutral and simply waited for the great sorceress to state her terms, knowing full well that she’d agree to almost anything the woman wanted.

“I am to come live with you, at Ard Carraigh.” Tissaia clasped her hands neatly in front of her. “Foltest is becoming…more of a charge than I am willing to handle, these days. I do not wish to return to Aretuza, and I will not spend my days as a vagabond or peddler of cheap tricks. It will most likely be several years hence, before I make good on such a promise, as I do have other matters to attend here first, and shall have to help find my replacement.”

Calanthe blinked rapidly at this. Yes, it was another mouth to feed, and a certain level of expense—but to have a sorceress living at Ard Carraigh, a potential ally against the dragon…it seemed more than worth the cost.

So she numbly nodded in agreement, barely whispering, “You shall…always have a place at my hearth, Madame de Vries. Whenever you choose, for as long as you wish it.”

“Good,” Tissaia gave a curt nod, turning on her heel. “Then let us begin.”

Calanthe took a deep, shaking breath. She wanted to weep in relief.

 _Freedom_ , her heart sang. Another noose, forever cut from her neck.


	31. Now and Always

**Seventeen Years Later.**

**Ard Carraigh, Temeria.**

Something was wrong. Tissaia de Vries could sense it. She left Eist and Mousesack to keep watch over Pavetta’s chambers and transferred to the entrance of the garden.

It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of heavy stillness that not even the birds dared to disturb.

Death. Only death elicited such somber reaction from nature. Chaos and blood, something even the animals understood.

She slowly walked down the gravel path, her stomach tightening with each cautious step. Finally, she came around a bend in the winding walk, and saw Duny’s lifeless form. Relief rippled through her veins. She moved a bit faster, a bit surer—a few more strides and Calanthe came into view, on all fours on the gravel path, head dipped down as she quietly wept.

Oh, this strange woman. Tissaia had always been fascinated, from the moment they’d met. Even now, after all these years, she found herself intrigued and confused by Calanthe’s reactions. She was quicksilver in her moods and her actions, in ways that perhaps would have been frightening if Tissaia were a woman of lesser power and strength herself.

“What have you done?” Tissaia asked quietly, keeping her tone unaccusing. Not that she couldn’t tell—she just needed to say something, to warn Calanthe of her arrival.

Calanthe looked up at her approach, nearly stopping Tissaia in her tracks completely—she wore the look of wide-eyed, tear-streaked terror than Tissaia hadn’t seen in years, not since their first fateful meeting in the king’s court. Her chin and neck were streaked with blood, the smudged kohl under her eyes making her look even more terrible and haunted.

“What have _you_ done?” Calanthe growled back, suddenly trembling.

She knew, Tissaia realized. Somehow, in some way, she knew. Still, Tissaia moved closer, remaining as nonchalant and stoic as ever. “My best, given the situation.”

Normally, it was the sort of quip that would amuse Calanthe’s dark and dry sense of humor. However, she was not greeted with even the slightest smirk.

Instead, before Tissaia could truly react, Calanthe lunged forward, gripping Tissaia’s skirts with both hands and forcefully hauling her onto the ground, pinning her down with a forearm across her collarbone. It took Tissaia half a beat to realize that it was a hold, not an actual choke—a warning, not an attack, not an actual attempt to harm her. Calanthe was shaking so violently that Tissaia could hardly keep her eyes locked onto Calanthe’s—though she didn’t need proper focus to feel the absolute ferocity and hurt radiating out of them.

“I trusted you,” Calanthe spat, her vocal cords rippling with barely-restrained rage. “I _trusted_ —you promised to protect her—and all this time….”

The woman was heaving, Tissaia realized. She could feel each breath Calanthe took, the way it made her forearm press harder against Tissaia’s collarbone. Already spiraling out-of-control and hanging on by a single thread.

She really didn’t want to find out what would happen when the thread snapped.

Tissaia took a slight breath and calmly pointed out, “My lady, we both know that I can easily retaliate with a strength far beyond your own. Please do not force me to do so.”

Calanthe started slightly, obviously unable to deny it. But she did not retreat. She merely stayed, boring her dark eyes into Tissaia’s, still mentally weighing her chances and her possibilities.

It was terrifying, and fascinating. Tissaia waited, watching the way Calanthe’s frame still rattled as her eyes began to glisten.

The thread was getting thinner.

Then Calanthe blinked, and the angle of her face above Tissaia’s allowed a single tear to drop directly from her eye onto Tissaia’s cheek.

The sorceress rippled with surprise.

“You promised,” Calanthe rasped again, her face contorting with pained betrayal. “And I—I believed.”

She pressed just a bit harder into Tissaia—not enough to truly hurt, still on her collarbone instead of her windpipe, and yet still very much a threat. But now Tissaia was filled with a sudden gentleness. Calanthe was still pinning her to the ground, still looming threateningly over her, and somehow, she seemed like the smallest, most fragile thing in the world. Tissaia felt an inexplicable urge to simple stroke the woman’s hair, to comfort her in any way possible.

Not that she was foolish enough to actually do so. Instead, she merely blinked. Waited. That was always the key to Calanthe—very few waited long enough for her to truly finish her thoughts, but if one did, they usually better understood the true root of her odd reactions and hair-trigger mood swings.

“What did the dragon promise you?” Calanthe asked, searching Tissaia’s face curiously, almost fearfully. “What did he—”

“Nothing.” Tissaia filled with a bolt of terror at the thought. “Nothing, he never—Calanthe, do you truly think that’s what is happening?”

The woman blinked rapidly, as if slightly ashamed. Still, she continued, “You…you volunteered yourself, so easily—and for what? You made such a show of…accommodating me, building this grand garden and knitting this place with all sorts of magic to protect us. You swore to protect my daughter—and for what? What could you possibly gain from it?”

Now Tissaia understood. Of course. The woman had never understood selflessness or compassion—granted, given what Tissaia knew of Calanthe’s past, she’d simply never been shown it, so it made sense that she could not fathom its existence.

And yes, truly, her service had not come from pure compassion and altruism.

She took a deep, steadying breath (made a bit harder, by Calanthe’s arm still pressing into her chest), and quietly confessed the truth. “I…knew. Even then, when we first met. Pavetta has always had some aura of power. At first, I thought it was you—after all, you were the daughter of a dragon. But when you returned to court, without Pavetta, the feeling was different. The first time I visited Ard Carraigh and saw Pavetta again, I knew for sure that there was something within her. I cannot…there is no way to explain it. But I wanted to know. To be here, when it revealed itself. Pure academic curiosity, in the beginning. And you—you held your own mysteries and curiosities. Six hundred years upon this earth, and I’d never met creatures like you and your daughter. And when you have lived this long, and seen as much as I have, you learn to pay attention to things like that. Like…you.”

Calanthe’s brows quirked in confusion.

Tissaia continued, “So, yes, at first, I had no intention other than being present, to watch this unfold. And yes, I made concessions and did what I could to keep you comfortable and happy—perhaps it was deceitful, endearing myself to you, simply so that I could continue watching Pavetta grow, waiting for the day she’d unleash whatever chaos she held. But as the years wore on, I did…gain a fondness for you both—for all of you, for all of this, this life here. I would never betray or endanger that, in any way.”

Now Calanthe was absolutely confused. She sat back fully, releasing her hold on Tissaia, who took a larger, grateful breath at the sudden loss of tension on her chest.

“Then…why?” Calanthe asked, quietly.

“Why what?” Tissaia sat up slowly, trying not to startle the woman with any sudden moves.

“Why…help Duny?”

“Help him?” Tissaia rippled with shock.

“He said that you knew. That you helped.” Calanthe’s gaze slid away from Tissaia—she was beginning to realize how untrue such an accusation could be, Tissaia realized. But she didn’t blame the woman for believing it, even for a small time. Calanthe had long been taught, most treacherously, that anyone could seem trustworthy and invested in her protection, only to betray her years later.

Tissaia also understood exactly what Duny had done—the man had used a measure of truth to imply a larger lie. She swallowed hard, her throat feeling dry and tight again. “I did know about Pavetta’s condition. And I have…helped her, in that regard.”

Calanthe looked back up at Tissaia, her heart pounding at the confession. Tissaia had known. She’d greeted Calanthe as if nothing were amiss, had acted utterly surprised at Duny’s arrival, and the whole time, she’d known.

As if reading her thoughts, Tissaia quickly added, “I didn’t know—I didn’t know who Duny was, much less _what_ he was.”

“You should have known,” Calanthe returned quietly. “You should have at least guessed. You said you sensed the power in her—that should have been reason enough. You should have made sure—you should have—you should have used every spell in your arsenal, done whatever it took—”

“I asked, Calanthe. I offered to help. But she chose to keep it—”

“ _It does not matter_ ,” Calanthe spat vehemently, turning away slightly. “She is a _child_ —a child with _no idea_ what she was choosing.”

“She is old enough to know her own mind,” Tissaia shot back, shifting closer to Calanthe. “I could not—to take away that choice from her, would I have been any better than—”

“Yes!” Calanthe hissed, turning back to her with a ferocious expression. “Yes, because she did not know the full measure of her choice—nor did you, I grant you that, but you should have _known_ that it was a possibility. Someone made it past all your spells and tricks, enough times to create a liaison with my daughter, to create a _child_ with her, and it never occurred to you that they might have outside help from a powerful force, some darker motives at play? How could you be so _stupid_?”

She spat the last word, and yes, it hit as sharply as she intended—but then again, she knew how Tissaia prided herself on her knowledge and insight, her ability to see into people and their motives better than most.

Still, Tissaia tamped down the hurt, quietly pointing out, “She is still your daughter, Calanthe. Do you honestly think, even if I had known, even if I had tried, that I would have triumphed over her will and determination? Whatever happened between her and Duny, she truly chose it, of that we can be certain. And she chose to keep the child that resulted from it. You cannot choose her destiny for her—no more than you could avoid her fate.”

Now Calanthe blinked hard again, shaken by the realization. And again, Tissaia saw the same fear that she’d seen upon her face, eighteen years ago when they’d first met. 

Tissaia made her tone gentler, quieter, “I told you, all those years ago—some things will always find a way to happen. You may have tried to thwart your destiny, but your fate could never truly, fully be denied.”

A heavy, weighted beat passed as Calanthe merely stared at her, chest beginning to heave with emotion.

“How long?” Calanthe whispered.

Tissaia understood what she was truly asking. She merely pressed her lips into a thin line and gave a single, small shake of her head. _Too late for that sort of intervention now._

Of course. Even now, the woman sought to throw off the shackles of Fate, to redirect Destiny again. Cautiously, Tissaia added, “I…I don’t think, even if you tried, even if Pavetta agreed and committed…to a course of action, I don’t think it would work. The child has begun to move and I…I can already feel its power. It shall be a child to change the world. Fate has been fulfilled, and there will be no redirecting this path.”

Calanthe turned away, slowly bracing her hands on the gravel as she dipped forward, almost touching her head to the ground. The grief was so palpable, Tissaia felt her own lungs tightening with emotion.

She wanted to reassure Calanthe that she felt the same. That even though she had not birthed Pavetta, she truly had dedicated her life to raising her, and that she loved the girl, as deeply as she could love any child. And yes, she had failed her charge, but she’d never wanted to, had never wanted to break the oath she’d taken, all those years ago.

But they had never been the sort for such teary-eyed talks. So instead, Tissaia quietly tried to find the good amongst the wreckage. “It may be Pavetta’s destiny, but it is one that she chose. And…some things were always beyond our control, no matter how vigilant we were, or could have been.”

Calanthe’s shoulders rolled inward, and Tissaia saw the shame in her expression—she realized, with a sudden flash of insight, that Calanthe’s vehemence and anger was actually directed at herself, who had also been just as foolish, just as blind, if not even more so.

“Some things were always fated to happen,” Tissaia reminded her gently. “No matter how we tried, or how hard we strove—Destiny has found its way. And we shall find a way to meet it, as best we can.”

Now Calanthe melted completely, sinking down to weep with loud, open-mouthed sobs as her fingertips dug into the gravel. Her whole body was shaking again. She was so utterly broken, in a way that Tissaia had never seen before.

All her life, Calanthe had run from this, Tissaia realized—had truly believed that she could outrun Destiny. And the price of her folly and pride, her genuine belief of invincibility, had finally been revealed: the one thing she loved most, the one for whom she’d fought so long and so hard, was drawn in to take her place.

This time, Tissaia followed her impulse to be tender. She moved closer, wrapping an arm around Calanthe’s shoulders and holding her tightly. She didn’t offer soothing words or some sense of hope—that had never been her style, and most likely, Calanthe would only attack her for such insipidness. She simply held on, and let her fall apart.

When the dragon had given her visions of the destruction to come, Calanthe had been too young to understand, to truly comprehend half of what she saw. But now, she understood fully—and she knew, beyond all doubt, that for all her running and raging, she had come to fulfill everything he’d proclaimed.

And now, just like when she was six, she began to scream at the realization, pushing out grief-laden bellows that seemed to shake the very stones and trees around them. Tissaia ducked her head against the sound, but held on anyways.

And just like when she was six, she kept screaming. Eyes wide and streaming tears, fixed unblinkingly and unseeingly ahead as she kept screaming, her entire body rattling under the strain of it. She might very well scream until the end of the world, until her lungs left her body entirely, through the sheer force of her rage and grief.

Let the world end, she thought. Let it all come crashing down around them. Let them drown in it, and spare them the worser fate of ever giving the dragon what he wanted.

* * *

Eist and Mousesack heard the screams, easily enough. Eist was rather certain all of Ard Carraigh heard them. He bolted up the nearest staircase, which Calanthe had taken earlier—he had no idea where he was going, but the sound guided him easily enough.

He navigated through a corridor, finding an open archway and running into the garden, looking around wildly to reorient himself. He hurried down the pathway, eventually stumbling onto a frightful scene: Duny, quite dead upon the gravel, and Tissaia, crouched down and hovering over Calanthe, who was screaming as if the whole world was aflame.

He didn’t hesitate—he rushed around to Calanthe’s other side, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her head into his chest.

Surprise and relief rippled through Calanthe’s entire being. Eist was here, he’d found her and had come to comfort her, to make her safe again. Her screams became quieter sobs, and she held on to him as she continued weeping. He merely held her tighter and slowly rocked her side to side, rubbing her back comfortingly as his chin rested atop her head, making her feel completely sheltered.

It was still an entirely odd sensation, not being alone in her grief. Being seen, in such moments of weakness. She felt another wash of shame at the thought. She held him tighter and burrowed further into him, feeling another spike of comfort and assurance at the way he shifted and held her tighter in response.

She wanted to apologize. To explain that she’d truly tried, that she’d truly not intended to kill Duny, in the beginning. To prove that this wasn’t all some brash act, her usual reckless nature rising to the fore as always.

But all she could do was weep. Weep at the situation, at the loss of her daughter, at the odd gift of simply being held in her grief.

Yes, the dragon had foretold so much of this—but it had not imagined Eist. It had not imagined anyone who could stay and love her, who could stand beside her against the tide of Destiny itself.

 _I cannot ever lose you,_ she thought to herself. _Want has become need, and I cannot ever lose you, ever again._

Tissaia shifted farther back on her heels, simply watching in mild curiosity as Eist continued gently rocking Calanthe in his arms, his own eyes filling with tears of grief for a pain that he didn’t even understand, yet.

Mousesack had already told her of Eist’s story, and the true depth of his connection to Calanthe. She’d understood, easily enough, why the man would follow her here—the promise of a cure to such a curse would be incentive enough indeed.

But now, she realized that he hadn’t come to Ard Carraigh for a cure. Not truly. He’d come purely out of love, out of a desire to be at Calanthe’s side, however he could.

She would do what she could to cure him, she decided. Not out of her own goodness, or even his apparent goodness in turn. No. She would cure him, for the same reason she’d created Calanthe’s enchanted garden and given her so many little comforts over the years: to ease the guilt of knowing that the woman’s fate decreed more hardship ahead, and the shame of choosing not to warn her, to leave Destiny undisturbed in finding its path.

Duny had been right, in some way. Tissaia had helped. Not actively, not intentionally—but she’d lived long enough to know that some things had to be allowed to happen, and she had not fought against them when they did, unlike Calanthe.

But it was not an ending of her fate’s journey. It was merely the beginning. Tissaia was rather certain Calanthe wasn’t ready to accept that truth. So instead, she slowly shifted away, turning her attention to Duny’s body. As usual, she would focus on doing what she could, to make things easier.

It was guilt, yes. But also care. Tissaia couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began—for years now, she’d sensed the arrival of this day, and she’d kept silent. And for years, she’d warred between shame and affection, unsure of her own motivations in so many ways.

Her only consolation was that she would outlive them all, for centuries. She’d have ages upon ages to berate herself and regret her actions and inactions, to bear her guilt long after even their ghosts had faded into the ether.

* * *

Tissaia made quick work of Duny, removing the body and washing away the blood upon the gravel. Once Calanthe had calmed into a quieter state, Eist moved them to a bench and began cleaning the blood from her face, using water from the fountain and a handkerchief from Tissaia. As he concentrated on his task, he could feel Calanthe’s eyes wide and watching him, could feel the curiosity and affection from her gaze even as he didn’t quite meet it.

“What are you thinking?” He asked quietly, gently scrubbing away another bit of blood on her chin.

“That you make a wonderful nursemaid,” she returned. He smiled at that.

“Still repaying my debt for your skills in Velhad,” he pointed out.

She hummed at that. “Perhaps, later…you can repay a debt based on…other skills also exhibited in Velhad?”

He huffed softly at that, his lips twisting into a grin. Her smile appeared as well, and he relished it, as he removed more blood from beneath it.

Then she became serious once more, the little line at the corner of her mouth reappearing. “I did try, you know. To…simply talk to him. But he…he provoked me.”

Eist merely hummed, unsure of what else to say.

“Pavetta is with child,” she admitted, voice going hoarse with emotion. Now Eist stopped, fully looking into her eyes and feeling his heart sear with pain at the sorrow and fear he found there. Night had begun to fall and the shadows of the garden only highlighted the darkness of her features, the unnatural paleness of her skin—she was still ill, he realized, still not fully recovered.

“A child to change the world,” she added quietly.

He wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly. But it was enough to terrify his ferocious lover, and that was enough for him.

“What shall we do?” He asked, searching her face for answers.

Now, she smiled, so softly and sweetly that it both surprised and delighted him.

“We?” She prompted, letting her hand come up to cup the side of his face.

He felt slightly chagrined at the liberty he’d taken. Still, he pushed forward. “I have told you, I will go where you go—not just physically, but in all things. Whatever you decide, I am here. It is my decision, too.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes again. She stroked his cheek with her fingertips.

“I do not know yet,” she admitted quietly. “But I do know that it will be far more bearable, with you at my side.”

He hummed in understanding, returning to the task of cleaning her up. She closed her eyes, and he saw the sudden droop of her shoulders, as if a heavy weight suddenly dropped upon her.

“I could sleep for an age,” she said, keeping her eyes closed.

“Then let’s.”

She smiled at that. He removed the last of the blood and wrapped her back in his arms again, pulling her closer. He kissed the top of her head. “Nothing needs to be done tonight. The immediate threat is gone, for now. Just…rest, for a while.”

She made a small noise of agreement, holding him a bit tighter for a full beat before shifting back. She rose to her feet and moved forward—but her hand slipped behind her, softly awaiting his own. He stood and took her hand, feeling a measure of quiet delight at how natural, how easy it felt.

Tissaia was still in the garden, though she’d retreated to a safer distance. She eyed Calanthe cautiously as they approached.

“We shall all talk in the morning,” Calanthe decreed. “For now, it is best to let things rest.”

The sorceress merely nodded, and with a slight wave of her hand, disappeared entirely. Calanthe felt another flutter of regret—she needed to mend things with Tissaia, she knew. But she’d never been good at such things, and she certainly couldn’t attempt it right now.

Eist kept a steadying hand at her waist as they went down the darkened staircase—she was reminded of Velhad, all the soft moments they shared in that stairway. Of the gentleness and love that had existed, even then, even before they were able to truly recognize and verbalize it.

They reached the third floor, to find Mousesack still stationed outside Pavetta’s chambers. She felt another swell of affection—while she might have cause to still doubt Tissaia’s devotion and motives, she’d never truly doubted Mousesack’s. He loved her daughter.

He did not know. Of that much Calanthe was certain. And she would have to tell him, in the morn. For now, she merely thanked him for keeping watch (to which he, predictably, merely tilted his head, as if to say _of course, where else would I be, but here, protecting her?_ ) and informed him that she and Eist would be retiring for the evening.

It was not the first night in Ard Carraigh that she’d imagined. She let Eist undress her, let him gently usher her under the covers before coming around to his own side of the bed to undress and slip beneath the sheets as well. She rolled into him, feeling a measure of relief to simply have his bare skin against hers.

Then she remembered. “Oh.”

Eist felt a perk of curiosity as Calanthe sat up again, shifting to fully stand atop the mattress. She reached up, fingertips lightly brushing against the ceiling, at the center of the intricately-detailed circle of painted vines.

The vines began to glow, as did the rippling curtains around her bed. The light slowly faded, and everything looked as normal as ever.

She smiled softly as she slowly sank back onto the mattress, slipping under the covers again. “It’s a protection ward. Nothing and no one can enter this bed without express invitation. So if you rise the in the night, make sure you wake me so that I can let you back in.”

He merely hummed, still processing the concept. That in her own home, she would need such precautions—that it had been proven necessary, given Duny’s appearance.

He pulled her closer again, softly aching for this woman and all that she’d endured.

“Is it too much?” She asked quietly, nuzzling into his neck. “All…of this?”

“No,” he assured her thickly. He dipped his head forward, letting his lips find the shell of her ear to place a small kiss and add, “I told you to drown me, did I not?”

Her throat tightened at the memory. On the way to Thanedd Island, before they’d known of Eist’s condition—when he’d looked into her eyes, his own filled with such adoring earnestness as he swore his love, his unending desire to be drowned in every shade of her chaos, for the rest of his life.

“Still,” she pointed out. “You…could not fathom exactly what you were agreeing to, upon making such a promise.”

“Nor did you,” he returned gently. “And yet you accepted mine, and made your own. I accepted your chaos—and we both accepted that life itself is chaos, as unpredictable and ever-changing as a storm upon the sea. You chose to stay, and so have I. All these…things, that I am learning, it only strengthens my resolve to hold to my word. You have trusted me with your very life, Calanthe—and I will spend the rest of mine proving worthy of it.”

She made a small noise at that, tightening her arms around him and pulling him slightly, shifting so that she was on her back, with his body half-laying atop hers. He countered, trying not to crush her—but then her fingertips flexed into his shoulderblades as she burrowed her face into his shoulder, and he understood. She wanted to feel sheltered, he realized. So he better angled himself to cover as much of her as he could without lying atop her completely. She took a long, grateful inhale, and he felt another measure of warm affection—she truly did trust him, despite a lifetime of being shown exactly why she shouldn’t trust anyone.

Calanthe’s throat was tight with emotion, but still, she pushed herself to speak. “This evening, in the garden—I felt…I don’t know if I felt anything, truly, until you came to me. It was all fear and adrenaline and then—then, you were there and I knew that no matter what, I was…safe. That even though I’d already shattered, I could truly...fall apart, with you there to protect me.”

Eist felt the sting of tears at her confession, at the smallness of her voice and the knowing certainty that lined it.

“I am here, now and always,” he reminded her softly. “Now and always.”

She made another small noise, shifting beneath him again. Her hands came up, slipping into his hair and guiding him into a kiss. Her legs shifted, trying to move her hips more directly beneath him, thighs widening in unmistakable invitation.

He shifted as well, still simply enjoying the softness of their kiss, the slow ebb and flow of their bodies merely moving around each other, building a rhythm as lulling and predictable as the tides. They continued, breaking apart from the kiss to place little tokens of affection elsewhere, on jaws and necks and tips of noses. He relished the small signs, the hitch of her breathing as she felt him hardening against her, the flush of heat from her skin setting his own on fire, the little noises she made every time their mouths found each other again, the slight pull of her teeth against his bottom lip.

Nearly a week, he thought dazedly. Nearly a week since they’d had time for this, time to simply be together and be soft with each other. He’d missed it, for more than just the physical release—and there was a measure of delight in knowing that she’d missed it, too, just as deeply and for the same reasons.

Calanthe’s chest felt so tight that she could hardly breathe. She held on tighter, pushing her tongue back into his mouth and shivering at the simple electric feeling of his hips pushing into hers in response. She was wet and aching and the slightest brush of his cock against her center was enough to elicit more trembling and sighing. He continued moving against her, not quite pushing inside, and the breathless feeling only grew.

She wanted to beg, to grab his hips and fully bring him into her, but at the same time, she relished the feeling, the growing tension—he wasn’t teasing, she realized, but rather merely enjoying the slightest sensations of their bodies reconnecting, every nuance and shade of making more love between them. He kissed her deeply again, the tip of his cock lightly pressing into her, slightly shifting back and forth to enjoy the wet heat of her center. She instantly clenched and twittered, overwhelmed by the absolute adoration she felt in the small gesture. He hummed in approval, the sound reverberating down her throat as his left hand anchored at her hip and he finally pushed inside her, pushing through the tightness of her cunt to send blossoms of heat through her hips. But she didn’t feel relief—she felt even more needy desperation, even more burning tension.

He was still moving slowly, drawing in and out as if simply relishing every inch of her, and her lungs stopped completely, for a full beat. He dipped his head, latching onto her neck with just enough teeth to set her shivering again, her thighs already shaking as her cunt went tighter still, so tight that he almost couldn’t move at all inside her.

Eist made another low, growling sound of approval. Now he kept his strokes shorter, stayed deeper, swiveling his hips into hers. Her feet lifted off the mattress entirely, ankles hooking around his hips. She stroked the back of his neck, his shoulders, his upper arms, unable to stop the small, panting noises spilling from her lungs in response. He sucked at the pulse point beneath her jaw and she shattered softly, holding on to him with every part of herself that she could. But he did not stop the slow, deep movements, didn’t stop enjoying every ounce of her, still pinned beneath him.

 _Let me drown you_ , she’d once asked him, and he’d gladly obliged. Now, she felt the tables turned: he drowned her in love and adoration, past the point of no return. She’d given him every reason to run, every excuse to break his promises, and yet, he so whole-heartedly chose to stay.

Unconditionally. He truly loved her, unconditionally. Not a single thing he’d learned today had changed him, in the slightest. _Now and always_ , he’d promised, and even now, even so early on, he’d proven it in ways that left no doubt in her mind.

“I love you.” She heard her own voice blurting out. “Oh, I—please, I love you.”

He shifted, rising up enough to truly meet her eyes with his own in the darkness. He seemed slightly bewildered, though still absolutely pleased.

“I love you, too,” he said simply, as if were a well-known fact, as simple as saying the sky was blue. And it was, she realized with a flash of pure delight. He kept moving inside her, kept watching her with adoration and a dash of curiosity.

Then she felt it. The slight wave of coolness against her skin, emanating from his own. The relief that somehow only built more need, more tension. He swiveled deeper into her hips and she moaned softly as the sensation, locking her legs around his hips completely and holding him there.

He simply watched her for a beat, then gave another experimental shift of his hips. Obviously it gave him enough sensation—he smiled in that same shining, delighted way that never failed to make her heart seize, and he began moving again, staying as deeply inside her as possible as he rocked his hips into hers.

They were making love, of course she knew that—but in that moment, she realized they were also making a covenant, one they’d declared for several weeks now. He was staring into her eyes, the neediness growing in his expression and only adding fuel to the fire building in her hips and lungs as well.

He was here. As deeply attached to her as possible. He wasn’t going anywhere. She reached up, lightly holding his face in her hands as her hips continued moving in time with his—she intentionally tightened the muscles in her core, feeling the twitch of his cock in response and the seeing the added flush in his handsome features. She kept going, pulling and tightening in synch with his shifts, silently willing him to fall apart for her.

“I’m here, too,” she reminded him. “Now and always, I’m here too.”

She clenched as hard as she could, and that was enough. He came undone, spilling inside her and making her twitch and tremble in response. Eist dipped his head forward with a low, soft huff, and she shifted, turning her head to kiss the shell of his ear.

“I’m here,” she echoed softly, nuzzling into the crook of his neck and keeping her hand at the back of his head, holding him in place for a few beats more.

Then they delicately pulled apart, Calanthe shifting so that Eist could lay beside her again. She kept her right hand on his cheek, smiling at him and hoping he could see all the adoration and devotion she held for him. He gently clasped her wrist, holding her hand in place as he turned and pressed a kiss into the palm.

She wanted to weep, she realized. In pure joy and gratitude.

Her thought from the garden returned: _Want has become need, and I will not live without you._

She quietly shifted forward, kissing his forehead. With a soft flutter of joy, she realized that she’d never have to live without him—because now, tonight, they’d both made a pact beyond breaking.

He was here. He would stay. She would not be alone, in neither grief nor joy, nor fear, nor peace, nor any other state. She would not be alone, now and always.


	32. Every Way But One

Mousesack and Vanielle were quietly conversing outside Pavetta’s chambers when Calanthe arrived the next morning, much to Calanthe’s surprise (truly, she wasn’t sure the sphinx was capable of genuine conversation, beyond a few stilted exchanges). Mousesack gave a slight bow when he saw Calanthe, who immediately waved off the gesture.

“It was a quiet night?” She guessed, half-fearful of either answer.

“Yes, my lady.” Mousesack nodded. “Tissaia has checked on her a few times, and all is well.”

Calanthe merely hummed. She slipped past, gingerly opening the door.

It was still early morn, with grey light slowly filtering in through the windows. Eist had been half-asleep when she’d lifted the ward surrounding the bed, giving him a soft kiss and explaining where she was going and encouraging him to continue resting. He’d easily tumbled back into sleep, and she’d been grateful for it. The man had certainly endured enough over the past twenty-four hours.

She could not guarantee that the next twenty-four hours would be any less eventful. Her stomach tightened as she quietly approached her daughter’s bed. Pavetta looked so small, so small and helpless beneath the covers, her young face open and peaceful in sleep.

 _I tried so hard to protect you, and all I did was make it easier for them to use you,_ she thought miserably. Her hand came up, fingertips almost-brushing over her daughter’s hairline, still trying not to disturb her. _My darling girl, my one good thing, I cannot ever forgive myself for how I betrayed you._

For years now, she’d ignored Mousesack’s pleas to stop hunting, to give up this petty need to prove her sire wrong by killing monsters instead of unleashing them. She’d tried to ignore the silent pleading in her daughter’s eyes, every time they said goodbye—Pavetta would never ask her, she knew, and yet, she always knew that Pavetta wanted her to stay at Ard Carraigh always.

Pavetta never asked, Calanthe realized. Never asked for things she wanted, or needed—granted, Calanthe almost always knew, almost always gave them to her, anyways. But Pavetta never asked.

She never asked, because she was afraid of being denied, Calanthe realized suddenly. The same reason she did not tell her mother about Duny, even before the pregnancy. And the same reason she hid her condition for so long. Because she’d always feared Calanthe’s reaction.

And now, finally, she’d found the courage to bring Duny into the light, to declare her love and her intentions—and what had Calanthe done? Proven her fears absolutely true.

 _But not for the reasons you think_. Calanthe’s mother-heart ached. _Never for the reasons you thought—everything I do is out of love, as terrible as it may seem. I have only ever wanted for you all that I never had, all that I could never have. And all I have done is shackle you in ways that you could not fathom, delivered you to consequences that neither of us could imagine._

She thought of Tissaia’s words, the evening before. The woman claimed she’d tried her best, with Pavetta. Could Calanthe truly say the same? Could she truly say that she’d done everything she could, to protect her daughter from her fate?

She knew the answer. She could have stopped hunting, or never started in the first place. She could have focused on raising Pavetta and keeping her safe, rather than seeking revenge and all but taunting the dragon to find her again.

Her entire body jolted at the thought—had _she_ been the one to lead the dragon here? She went out on hunts, never hiding her face, hubristically believing that a change in identity was shield enough. Anyone could have seen her, could have figured out who she was, could have stalked her, eventually following her all the way back to Ard Carraigh, right into Pavetta’s arms.

Some things were always destined to happen, Tissaia had told her. But Calanthe wasn’t sure that this was one of them—especially when her own pride and idiocy had created such ripe opportunities. She closed her eyes at the thought. She’d become too complacent, too sure of herself and her abilities, as always.

And this was the cost.

Her throat tightened and her eyes stung. She took a step back, turning to leave her daughter in peace.

“Mum?” A small voice stopped her. Calanthe waited for a full beat, marshalling her emotions into better shape before turning back around.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Pavetta whispered, her face twisting in a mixture of shame and sorrow. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

Calanthe was at the bedside again in a heartbeat, leaning in to wrap her daughter in her arms. “I know, my sweetheart, I know—”

“I should have told you, before—”

“No, no, I understand.” Calanthe closed her eyes against a fresh wave of tears. She pressed a kiss into her daughter’s temple. “Don’t upset yourself. You need to rest.”

“Will you…stay?”

With a blossom of surprise, Calanthe realized that for the first time in a very long time, Pavetta was asking something of her.

“Of course,” she breathed.

Pavetta shifted to the middle of the bed and Calanthe laid atop the covers, wrapping her arm around her daughter’s waist and laying her head on Pavetta’s shoulder. She could feel the tension radiating from Pavetta’s frame, and with a wash of compassion, she realized how alike they could be, in times like this.

She thought of last night. Of feeling so deeply accepted and loved by Eist’s unwavering devotion. Of realizing that love truly could overcome everything, if it was allowed to.

The love she held for her daughter was greater than anything she’d ever felt—and it still was, even now. Quietly, she cleared her throat and declared, “I love you. Nothing has changed that; nothing ever will.”

Pavetta began to shake. It took Calanthe a moment to realize the girl was weeping. She made a soft, cooing sound, bundling her daughter fully into her arms and holding her closer. Pavetta burrowed into the crook of her neck, and a few moments later, Calanthe felt her daughter’s tears, slipping down the line of her collarbone.

Her poor, sweet, precious girl. So unaware of all the grief and tragedy to come. So undeserving of the fate she’d been given, so innocent of the sins that had come to roost atop her head. Calanthe held on tighter, overwhelmed by her own emotions.

They stayed like that for a very long time. Finally, when Pavetta had stopped crying, Calanthe quietly announced, “I think…my dearest, it is time that I tell you the story of exactly why we came to Ard Carraigh.”

She felt Pavetta go completely still in her arms, suddenly filled with cautious curiosity. For her safety, Pavetta had known that Calanthe was from Cintra, and that she’d escaped and started a new life, with a new alias, in Temeria. But she’d never told Pavetta any of the finer details. Just that there were people who might try to find Calanthe, and that it was best to keep a low profile.

Calanthe told her everything. Even more than she’d told Eist, so far. About the dragon, about the attack, about Pavetta’s father and his betrayal, even about the child she’d been carrying after Pavetta, the one she uprooted after fleeing Hochebuz. About the bargain she’d struck with Tissaia and becoming barren, about seeking out those who’d forced them into hiding, and even about killing the ones she’d found.

And now came the hard part. She swallowed, suddenly feeling as if she couldn’t quite breathe.

“The reason I reacted the way I did, when…Duny arrived.” She blinked quickly, holding back tears at what came next. “Was that I…sensed him. I sensed the dragon in him.”

Pavetta pulled away, finally meeting Calanthe’s gaze again. “What?”

“He is—he was—a half-dragon, like me,” Calanthe said.

“Was?” Pavetta queried, her tone filling with dread.

Calanthe could not lie to her. Even if she couldn’t bring herself to speak it aloud.

“Mother.” Pavetta’s voice was low, trembling with emotion. “What have you done?”

Now Calanthe forced herself to answer, “Too little too late, as ever.”

Pavetta’s expression broke—she knew that Calanthe was aware of her condition, Calanthe realized.

“I’m so sorry,” Calanthe whispered, her voice becoming fast and frantic. “I should have—I should have told you everything, so you could be better prepared, more vigilant—and it isn’t your fault, my darling, of course it isn’t, how could it be? You had no idea—and I’m sure he was charming and kind and—”

“Mother, please.” Pavetta gripped her shoulder, her green eyes filling with desperation. “Please tell me that you did not.”

Calanthe blinked again, tears stinging her eyes. This was the worst part still—making Pavetta realize the truth of Duny’s treachery. “My love, I—I did not choose to. But he…he admitted that he came here to seduce you. He is…we share the same father, he and I. And the dragon sent him here to—”

“No.” Pavetta shook her head vehemently, pushing away from her mother slightly. “No. Duny _loves_ me.”

“Pavetta—”

“ _No_.” She sat up, putting further distance between them and quietly shattering Calanthe’s heart in the process.

Calanthe slowly pushed herself into a sitting position as well.

Pavetta melted slightly, her face crumpling with sorrow as she whispered, “Please tell me it’s not true. He…he loved me. He said….”

Her head dipped forward and her shoulders began to shake as she wept. Calanthe could not stop her own tears either as she moved closer, reaching for her daughter again. This time Pavetta did not shy away—she simply collapsed against her mother, weeping more loudly.

“I’m so sorry,” Calanthe repeated, over and over again. “My darling girl, I am so sorry—I wish I could—I wish it were all a terrible lie. I wish for all the world that it had not been so.”

Oh, Pavetta could not know how deeply her mother meant those words, in the moment. But she would know, soon enough. The thought sent another pang through Calanthe’s heart.

And oh, she was beginning to understand—Pavetta sat back, face suddenly lined with concern.

“If the dragon sent him…what does that mean?” Her hand went to her stomach—which now, without her layers of robes, Calanthe could see was beginning to swell with unborn child.

Calanthe’s eyes filled with more tears. “I’m not…entirely sure. Other than there will be plans for this child. Just as there were plans for me, and for you.”

“No.” Pavetta gave a curt shake of her head. “No, no one shall take my child from me. I will run, as you did—I will learn to fight, I will do what is necessary, I will—I do not know _what_ I will do, but I know what I won’t do, and that is to allow anyone to take my child for some wicked scheme.”

The vehemence in her shaking voice—oh, Calanthe understood it, better than anyone. 

And in that moment, she realized, with utter clarity, that while Destiny might have been fulfilled in some way, there was still so much that could be done.

She had become a mother of chaos and yes, even destruction—Pavetta’s powers proved that. But Pavetta was not some evil thing, some force to bring the world into darkness. No, she was still the sweet, tender-hearted girl she’d always been.

Pavetta carried a child who could open the gate, a child who would change the world—and while that may be true, _how_ this child changed the world was still open to influence.

Had not Pavetta proven that, by her mere existence?

And did not Pavetta have far more resources than Calanthe had, when she’d begun her own journey of protecting her child from the ill-will of others?

She gently placed her hands on Pavetta’s shoulders. “You are not alone, my dearest. You have never been, and never will be. I am here, as are Mousesack and Tissaia. We will help you. We will shelter the child—we will move to the ends of the earth, do whatever is necessary to protect you both. You will choose your path, and we will help you walk it.”

 _And Eist_ , her heart added. _Eist will be there, too_. She knew with utter certainty that he would stay, would do what he could to protect her daughter in turn.

Pavetta’s eyes welled with tears again.

Calanthe continued, smiling gently. “The dragon’s greatest fault is that he has never understood the true measure of my spirit—and he has no inkling of the might of yours, either. He does not stand a chance against us.”

And for the first time, she truly felt the weight of such words. Pavetta was no longer a child, to be protected and sheltered. She could stand upon her own two feet and defend herself, Calanthe knew. And she possessed a power that few could ever overcome.

“Do you truly believe so?” Pavetta asked, almost fearful of the answer.

“Yes,” Calanthe answered, simply and whole-heartedly.

It would be so, she decided. She would move heaven and earth to make it so.

* * *

Eventually Pavetta fell back asleep, after crying enough tears to flood the world as she’d slowly come to grips with the reality of her situation, of her relationship with Duny and the child they’d created. Calanthe stayed a while longer, lightly stroking her fingertips over the top of her daughter’s head, mind still turning over the events of the past twenty-four hours. So much could have been prevented, if only she’d done something sooner, been more open and honest with her daughter.

 _I will not make the same mistake twice_ , she decided. Slowly, she rose from the bed, making sure not to disturb Pavetta. Then she made her way back into the corridor.

Mousesack and Vanielle were still talking. Calanthe couldn’t imagine what about. Not that she truly cared, mind you.

She motioned to both of them. “I’ll be needing you, soon enough. Find Tissaia and meet me in the receiving room. Pavetta is well and on the road the recovery—for now, we must turn our attention to curing Eist.”

She continued on, back to her chambers. Eist was dozing off again, merely waiting for her to return. She smiled softly at his face, peaceful and beautiful as ever.

He stirred awake at the sound of her approach, groggily scrubbing his hand across his eyes. With adorable sleepiness, he announced, “You’re back.”

“I’m back,” she agreed. She pulled back the gauzy curtain at his side of the bed, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “Ready to go break a curse, my love?”

“Ready to go anywhere you lead me,” he returned, reaching out to rub the side of her hip admiringly. “Especially if it grants me such a lovely view.”

She rolled her eyes at that. Still, she might have put slightly more sway than necessary into her hips as she went to her wardrobe, selecting a veil to match her dress. Eist made a small noise of appreciation and she dipped her head, cheeks twinging with a smile.

“How is Pavetta?” He asked after a beat, tone lined with gentle concern.

“Resting.” Calanthe took a deep breath. “I told her everything. And she knows…on some level, about Duny.”

She hadn’t asked outright, but Calanthe could tell that Pavetta knew well-enough what had happened. Calanthe had promised to tell her everything, if she wished—but Pavetta had waved it away. She wasn’t ready yet. Calanthe had understood. She’d been given so much to process already.

“And how did she take it?” Eist was sitting up fully now, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

“Better than expected, to be honest.” Calanthe turned back to face him, smiling softly. “She is…far stronger than I give her credit for, in all things.”

He smiled at that. “She is her mother’s daughter.”

She blushed a bit, and he felt a flutter of adoration at her reaction. Then she looked back up at him, eyes shining.

“You should get dressed,” she suggested quietly.

“Or you could get undressed.”

She grinned at that. “Later. We really do have things to do.”

Eist gave a beleaguered sigh befitting the best of martyrs and quietly obeyed. Calanthe huffed softly and shook her head, walking across the room to her mirror, where she put on her veil.

“I miss you, you know,” he admitted softly. “When you’re hidden from me. Even if it’s just a short time. I miss…seeing you.”

She raised her veil, catching his gaze through the mirrored reflection. Her heart melted at the earnestness of his tone, the soft aching of it, the sheer sweetness of his words.

“Perhaps—” She swallowed hard, keeping her eyes on him. “Perhaps, if we—if we decide the best option is to leave Ard Carraigh, to avoid the dragon—perhaps we will choose a life that allows me to live without it.”

He nodded at that, smiling softly. “I like that idea.”

She smiled back, feeling a measure of regret as she put the veil back in place. Eist was fully dressed now, holding out his hand to her, which she gladly took. They made their way to the second floor, to the receiving room, which was far smaller than the great hall, and far more comfortable, with its chaises and ottomans arranged across a long, wide, finely-woven rug.

Tissaia, Mousesack, and Vanielle were already assembled, turning towards them with expressions of mild curiosity.

Calanthe removed her veil and wasted no time—she retold the story of the attack, went through all the ways she’d tried to prevent the infection from taking hold, and reminded everyone of Eist’s selkie blood and how it apparently aided in the transformation. Then she directed Vanielle to requote the warning she’d given Eist, before they’d even left Verden, and the signs that she’d seen upon his palm.

Eist sat next to Calanthe on a chaise, his heart lightening a little as Vanielle recounted all that she’d seen foretold in his life.

The words he’d echoed in his heart and mind for weeks now were made even clearer still, given the events of the past few days. _You will know deep love, and deep loss. You will be abandoned and found again. You will know the love of a mother’s heart, both conditional and unconditional. You will know the love of a thousand suns, and the fear of a single moon._

Then Vanielle hesitated, giving an uneasy look in his direction. “And…I saw more, upon his palm. More that I did not share, for I feared it would…change the path of his destiny.”

Eist and Calanthe sat up a little straighter, both curious and slightly fearful.

“I saw…a love. A love set in stone, before your own creation, decided by Destiny to transform.”

Eist’s chest flushed with warmth. He felt Calanthe’s hand, lightly brushing against his hip—she felt the same, he knew. The slight awe of knowing that, even though they’d willfully chosen each other, some part of their choice had always been foretold.

“And I read…the word of his fate,” Vanielle added. She cut a meaningful glance back to Mousesack and Tissaia. “Catalyst.”

That didn’t sound particularly promising, Eist thought.

Calanthe voiced the thought in his own head, “What does that mean, exactly?”

Tissaia ducked her head, keeping her tone neutral. “Like all things surrounding Fate and Destiny, my lady, it is open to interpretation.”

“Then what, exactly, is your expert interpretation?” Calanthe returned easily, arching her brow slightly.

Tissaia smirked at that. It was good to know that nothing between them had truly changed, after yesterday.

Mousesack quietly spoke up, “Regardless of what his role as a catalyst might be—or might have already been—we need to focus on the outside factors affecting his curse.”

He took a beat to look at Calanthe, “You, specifically.”

Calanthe swallowed hard and sat up straighter.

“For whatever reason, your fate is tied to his,” Mousesack pointed out gently. “And perhaps—if we read your palm, we could figure out why, and exactly how.”

Now Eist reached out, gently taking Calanthe’s hand. She looked terrified, he realized. But then again, why should she not? She’d been told her fate since the age of six, and had spent her life trying to avoid it.

“I don’t….” Calanthe blinked, gave the slightest shake of her head. “I don’t think I want that.”

She squeezed Eist’s hand harder, as if silently apologizing.

Shakily, she added, “I do not…want to know.”

Tissaia’s face contorted in compassion. Quietly, she announced, “I do not think we need to know, truth be told.”

Now everyone turned their attention fully to the sorceress. She held open her hands as she calmly explained, “It took most of the night, but I finally found a text on breaking a transforming curse. It’s archaic, and reads like a fairy tale—there are a good many reasons why it isn’t a commonly-used cure, for certain. But…we may just be able to pull it off.”

“What is it?” Calanthe breathed, her heart beginning to race with hope.

With a flourish of her fingers, Tissaia produced a book, already opened to a specific page. She turned her attention to reading, “To break the curse, one must win the love a princess—”

She looked a bit pointedly back at Calanthe, who despite her new identity was technically still a princess of Cintra.

“—who has known true love but once before. And it must be true love this time, as well—fully felt and truly returned. Acceptance of this love, and reciprocation of this love, will cure all.”

“That does sound like some fairy tale cure,” Eist admitted quietly. He glanced over at Calanthe, who had become pale. “But surely, if that was all it took—”

“I can’t be your cure,” she announced, turning to him with sorrowful eyes. “I am…I am not your cure.”

She rose to her feet and all but bolted the room.

* * *

Eist found her in the garden, pacing among the lemon trees, whose heavy blossoms filled the air with a cloying sweetness. Her arms were wrapped tightly around her, fingertips digging into flesh as she worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

He loved her, in that soft, worrisome moment. Loved, as always, the look of her face when she was intently focused on some internal riddle.

She heard his footsteps on the gravel and turned to him, face contracting with sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I’m so sorry—we will find another way, I promise. But I cannot…this curse will not be broken in that way.”

He didn’t offer a response—truly, he had none to give. Instead, he merely moved forward, gently reaching for her. She easily answered the unspoken call, stepping closer so that his hands could rest on her shoulders. She dipped her head and looked away.

“True love, known once before,” she spoke softly. “I…have not had that. It’s only been with you. Only you. I loved Roegner, I know I did—but it was not true, not mutually requited, not honest or even based on who he truly was. I loved a mask, and loved in the way a child with no concept of what it means to swear a life together loves. With you…I know what I am saying, what I am meaning when I promise these things with you, and I do love you, who you are and how you are and with genuine understanding and without condition or restraint. But…it is all for the first time, not the second.”

She closed her eyes, and a single tear slipped down her cheek. “I am so sorry.”

“Don’t,” he said simply, taking her chin in his hand and holding her in place so that he could kiss away the tear. “Don’t apologize. None of this is your fault. And I—I have never truly loved before you, either. Do you ever think such a confession could ever do anything but bring more delight and joy to my heart? To know that I am the only lover of your heart and soul?”

She shifted slightly, bumping her nose against his in silent confirmation, agreeing with his words. _The love of my life_ , his mind echoed, still hearing how easily she said it, the very first time. He gently rested his forehead against hers as he quietly whispered, voice thick with emotion, “Do you think I would ever want you to apologize for allowing me to be the most marked exception in the world—to be the only one truly loved by something as wondrous as you?”

She gave a soft, shaking sigh, still keeping her eyes closed. He kissed the corner of her mouth before gently pulling her into a proper kiss.

“We will find another way,” she promised again, once their lips parted.

“We will find another way,” he echoed, sealing the promise with another kiss.

She closed her eyes again, placing her hand over his heart. He pressed his lips against her forehead, simply staying there.

 _We will find another way_ , her heart repeated, over and over again. _We were destined to find each other, and we are destined to remain with each other. We were written in the stars. We will find another way—as always, we will find our own way._

The sound of crunching gravel drew their attention, and they turned to see Pavetta, waiting sheepishly at the edge of the walk.

“Love,” Calanthe’s expression melted. “Should you be out of bed, so soon?”

She hurried over, hands fluttering towards her daughter’s shoulders, to her stomach. “You should—you must rest, and wait until Tissaia has made sure—”

“Mother, I am well enough,” Pavetta assured her with a watery smile. “I just came up to seek the air. I just needed to be someplace open, to truly be with my thoughts.”

Calanthe’s face contorted with compassion again.

And in that moment, Eist realized that she truly was his cure.

True love, known once before.

Could anyone deny how deeply, how unconditionally and without restraint, how truly she loved her daughter? Calanthe may never have loved romantically in this way, but it did not change the measure or the purity of the love she held for Pavetta.

True love. That was all the cure required.

He smiled, watching her fuss over her daughter, who eventually escaped, begging for solitude. Yes, she loved as fiercely as she fought, with just as much absolute abandon. Her love, like all things about her, was chaos, in the best of ways.

Calanthe was still worriedly watching Pavetta’s retreating form as Eist moved closer, wrapping his arms around her and leaning in to kiss his favorite line at the corner of her mouth.

“You are the cure,” he assured her, feeling it in every ounce of his bones. She shifted in his arms, looking up at him with incredulous eyes and a slightly-open mouth.

“Eist,” she breathed. “We literally _just_ discussed why I am not.”

“Pavetta.” He announced. He waited a beat before adding. “She is your first true love. It did not say the love had to be romantic. It simply said it had to be true, and requited. Your daughter loves you, just as deeply and unconditionally as you love her.”

Her expression flickered with hope and fear. “Do you…truly believe so?”

She turned slowly, gazing off in the direction that Pavetta had gone. His heart ached for the uncertainty lining her shoulders, for the way he could tell she was holding her breath, as if she dared not hope. He understood—there was still a stiltedness between them, so different from the easy, joyful way they’d been, when Eist had first met Pavetta. But there was still love, too, he knew.

“I do,” he said quietly. “Give her time. She loves you still, even if she has to find how to settle back into it.”

She sighed.

He gently took her hand and led her from the garden. Later, as they prepared for supper, Calanthe quietly pointed out, “You know…the curse might be broken already, and we simply don’t know it yet. For I am a princess, who has known true love a second time with you. And after Gors Velen, you returned to me—you accepted my love fully then, and have reciprocated it just as fully, have you not?”

“Aye,” he said quietly, his throat tightening at the thought.

She continued in her nonchalant tone, adding her veil again and adjusting it in the mirror. “Then by all accounts, we have fulfilled it all—we have little more than a week until the full moon, we shall know for sure then.”

He nodded in agreement, feeling a measure of practicality in her statement.

Little more than a week. A few more days, and it would all be behind them. She was his cure; he was sure of it.

He tried not to think of what it would mean, if he had not been cured. Knew that she could not contemplate such a thought, either.

Instead, he smiled and offered his hand, leading her to the great hall as if he’d done so every evening of his life. After supper, Calanthe gave Eist’s theory to Mousesack and Tissaia, who merely nodded in agreement. Eist’s hope rose. Surely it was so. Surely it would be so.

She had always been destined in his life. Had been written into his stars, across his palm. How could it be any other way?

* * *

Eist awoke again in the night, feeling jittery and off-kilter. He stared up at the ceiling, at the vines painted around the bed.

This bed, he thought warmly. Something about the curtains made it seem even more of its own little world, and they’d certainly spent the past few nights turning it into just that. The days were spent around Ard Carraigh—Calanthe still had to take audiences with her citizens, hidden away behind her veil, still spent time taking long walks through the garden with Pavetta and helping Mousesack create various curatives for whatever ailments Pavetta might be facing in her pregnancy. And she even took Eist out for tours of the land, riding their horses up into the mountains or across the rolling green hills surrounding the keep.

All of Ard Carraigh knew that Lady Fiona had a lover of sorts. Calanthe made no attempt to hide it. Mousesack and Tissaia, who kept close tabs on village gossip, had reported that apparently the servants who came in the evening had all approved, in their own ways, of the lady’s noble guest, and everyone seemed to be quite happy that the poor unfortunate lady had found a man who could look past her physical imperfections to love her kind soul.

Eist may have teased her about it, a few times. And had certainly done more than love just her soul, when they were alone.

Physical imperfections. He wanted to laugh at the idea, even now. He rolled over, wrapping his arm around her sleeping form and snuggling back into her warmth. She stirred slightly, making a small sound of delight that made his own heart flutter with adoration.

He nuzzled into the back of her neck, leaving a kiss. She shifted again, hips pushing back and swiveling against him. He rubbed the side of her hip, gently encouraging her to continue. Once she was truly moving, fully awake, he let his teeth come out to play along the line of her shoulder, his hand anchoring against her hip bone and pulling her farther into him.

He felt the way her entire body blossomed with heat against him, the little soft sigh she gave in response.

The last few nights had been like this, he thought warmly. Going to bed early and tumbling across the sheets until they were both thoroughly exhausted, waking multiple times in the night to couple again in softer, shorter interactions. She’d mended things with Tissaia, and her relationship with Pavetta was healing—she was her usual, boisterously joyful self again, just like their days in Velhad.

As usual, the balcony doors were open—a late night breeze filtered in, lifting the curtains slightly and bringing a sudden brightness to the room.

The moon, Eist suddenly realized. The moon was so bright, because it was almost full.

His stomach tightened with dread and understanding. It had been this way, before, last month—the sudden urgency, the frenetic need to chase this feeling out of his bones by pouring himself into her, again and again.

He stopped at the thought, and Calanthe made a small noise, turning slightly to glance at him over her shoulder.

“Love?”

He swallowed the thickness in his throat as he quietly asked (already too well-aware of the answer). “This is a sign, isn’t it? A…side-effect of what is to come?”

She went still, too. She knew what he was asking, and yes, she knew the answer, too.

“Perhaps,” she whispered.

He merely bowed his head, resting against her shoulderblade.

A heavy beat passed.

Then, in a sudden flurry of motion, Calanthe whipped the covers back, sliding out of bed to fully open the curtains on her side of the bed, leaving them open as she walked purposefully towards the balcony doors. She pulled back those curtains, too, flooding the room with more moonlight.

Eist sat up, watching her curiously.

She turned back to him, her face lined with a sudden somber intensity. She swallowed so hard that he could see it, even at a distance. She lightly placed her hands over her stomach, quietly decreeing, “We knew I might not be your cure. And if I am not, then we will find another way. We have already agreed.”

Calanthe took a full beat to simply watch him. Eist had been so certain that she was the cure, but she’d always held a seed of doubt in her heart. She had wanted it to be true, but she’d also known that her destiny had never allowed her to be a thing of goodness, to be something that could heal instead of wound. She had…expected this to happen, in a way.

But she did not feel sadness or even worry, not truly—he was sitting in her bed, looking as deliciously tousled as ever, marks from her teeth on his chest, completely hers, in every way. He was here, where she could keep him safe. He had declared his faith in her, had willingly given himself over to her care and keeping—and she would prove herself worthy of such a gift. She would cure him; she knew it in her bones with a sense of determined surety that not even Fate could override.

He would not be cured before this full moon. While it wasn’t ideal, it was still manageable. She would keep him safe—and by the next moon, she would have a cure for him, she knew it.

She could not allow herself to believe otherwise.

He was still watching her, still so shining and curious and hopeful, in so many ways. She wanted, more than anything, to have him carefree again, to let him be the thing that swam with her in the ocean or chased her around their rooms in Velhad. To be the wonderful, joyful thing that he was meant to be, always.

She took a deep breath and slowly stepped backwards, closer to the balcony doors. She forced herself to focus only on the moment, on the things she’d felt, the moment he’d brought their bodies back together again.

“Perhaps this is a side-effect—but it is a most enjoyable one, and if you think for a single second that I’m not going to welcome any chance to love you, regardless of how it comes about, then I’m afraid you’re gravely mistaken, my darling.” She took another step backwards, now fully standing on the balcony in the moonlight and watching him with a glowing expression. “We cannot control whether or not the cure has already occurred. We can only control this moment, and how we react to it.”

She held out her hands with a flourish, her chest flushing deeply in the pale moonlight, “So the only question is: how are _you_ going to react?”

Well, what could he do? He’d never been able to resist the woman, for ages now, and this was certainly no different. He left the bed as well, moving out onto the balcony with her. She retreated, moving to lean against the stone wall at the corner of the balcony—completely out of sight of any late-night passersby in the street, Eist realized—and smiled warmly as she watched him follow after her.

He came closer still, leaning in to brush his nose against hers—but she pulled away before he could kiss her. Her hands came to his hips, appreciatively mapping their way around his waist and up his spine.

“I love you,” she reminded him. “And even if this is a sign of things to come, it will not stop me from enjoying a chance to be loved by you in return. We will find a cure—but until then, there is no reason not to enjoy what parts we can, as fully as we can.”

The woman was unendingly logical, he decided, finally capturing her mouth into a kiss and pressing her farther up against the stone wall. Among many other lovely and desirous qualities—some of which his hands were currently appreciating. Still, he felt a prickle of worry. For how long it may take, for what might happen during the time they still searched for a cure, for all the ways he might spiral before he was healed.

Calanthe must have sensed his hesitation, because her hands came up to cup the sides of his face again, forcing his eyes to stay locked onto hers. "I will pull heaven down to hell itself if that’s what it takes. I will move mountains with my bare bleeding hands and I will use those same hands to murder anyone who tries to take you away from me. Do you understand? Do you understand just how much I—just how much I will give, how much I am willing to give, for you?”

She simply stared at him for a full beat.

“I—I am yours,” she nearly choked, tears welling up in her eyes. “And you are mine—and I will protect you, always. You must believe. You must let me fall to my nature, and protect you as fiercely as I can."

"I believe," he said simply, his mind still chasing all the thoughts her declaration created. _I am yours._ He rather liked the sound of it. Liked the idea even more—to be hers, now and always, just as they'd promised. To know that even now, even when she knew what he was and what he would become in a few short days, she still chose to give herself to him, to take him in turn. To know and feel just how unconditional her love truly was.

 _Unconditional_. This love had been promised, destined, decreed in his stars. She would cure him; he truly believed.

He let his lips travel down the length of her neck, across the line of her shoulder, drinking moonlight from her skin.

 _Mine_ , he thought, with a sudden rush of feral affection. And he made her exactly that.

* * *

By the night of the full moon, no cure had been found—there had been more signs, and they’d quietly accepted the truth. Calanthe, in her unending practicality, had devised a temporary solution—though she was far from happy about it.

She took him down to the first floor of the keep (and Eist had suddenly realized that he’d never actually been down here, during the entirety of his stay) and led him into a small room that had been created as some sort of holding cell, though it obviously hadn’t been used in ages. It had been recently cleaned, Eist could tell—and Calanthe had brought down blankets as well.

She stopped, turning back to him with a worried expression. “I did—I made a tea, something that will make you…sleep, through the night, if my measurements are correct. You won’t…you won’t know anything at all.”

He merely nodded, his throat tightening with emotion. How many times would they do this? How long until they found an answer? They’d spent hours upon hours, pouring through books and dusty scrolls. Mousesack and Vanielle had traveled off, seeking answers. Even Tissaia had whisked away to Aretuza, trying to find some sort of cure. And everyone had returned empty-handed.

It seemed the only answer had been the one that Tissaia had found—the role that Calanthe could fill in almost every way but one, apparently.

She handed him the blankets and his bedroll. “I’ll be back—I need to finish the tea.”

She disappeared into the shadowy corridor. Eist looked around the room. There were cuffs, chained to the wall. With a slight sigh, he set out his bedding beneath them.

 _We will find a cure_ , he reminded himself. Calanthe may not be able to fulfill the archaic prophesy, but she’d sworn to cure him, and he had faith. Mousesack had been right—there was nothing the woman could not do, and nothing she would not do, if given enough time and support.

She returned a few minutes later, and quietly helped him put on the cuffs, taking a beat to kiss the palm of each hand as she did so. There was regret in her fingertips, apologies in her kisses: _I’m so sorry, please forgive me for not being able to cure you before now, please trust that I will find a way, please._

What could he do, but give her exactly what she silently prayed for?

“Hey,” he said softly, waiting until she actually stopped to look into his eyes again. “It will be alright, Calanthe. I’m safe and you’re safe and we’re both still here—and that’s what matters, right?”

“Right,” she whispered, her eyes already brimming with tears. There was a small, narrow window to his left, and even now, the moon’s brightness was enough to make her features as clear as day.

“Drink this.” She held up a cup to his lips.

He obeyed, and finished the entire draught. She was smiling softly at him, her thumb wiping at the corners of his mouth.

“Will it truly work?” He asked, half fearful.

“Yes.” She blinked, pushing down more tears. “You truly will not feel a thing. And I will be here, through the night.”

He shook his head at that. “You shouldn’t…you shouldn’t stay. Just…in case.”

“It makes no matter what I should or shouldn’t do,” she gently pointed out. “I am here, and I will be here.”

Her hand came up to caress the side of his face, her voice thick and rasping with emotion. “Everything will be alright in the morning, my love.”

She truly believed it, he realized with a deepening sense of adoration. For all her hard edges and practical ways, she was endearingly, unendingly hopeful.

That was perhaps her greatest triumph, he thought. For all the chaos and tragedy of her life, she still held such deep hope.

“I love you,” he said simply.

She hummed, leaning in to kiss him.

“Sleep,” she commanded.

He could already feel the pull of the tea she’d given him—and found that within a matter of seconds, he was gently sliding onto his side, easily following her instructions. He opened his eyes one last time, his vision already blurring—and yet, even then, he could make out her face above him, smiling softly as she stroked his head, lulling him to sleep.

* * *

Once Eist was truly unconscious, Calanthe slowly shifted away. She moved to the far end of the room, back into the shadow, pushing her back against the stone wall and slowly sinking to the floor.

 _Just make it til the morning. Everything will be alright in the morning._ Her mind repeated the familiar mantra. The same refrain she’d repeated, the night she'd almost killed the dragon. The same sentiment she had echoed, as she’d retched and writhed in agony from the potion meant to end her pregnancy. The same words she’d whispered to Eist during his illness, that she’d repeated to herself again at the last full moon, when she’d hidden in the tree and waited for Eist to become himself again. The very same thing she’d chanted over and over again, the night she’d given Roegner this exact same tea and had taken his life.

 _Just make it til the morning._ She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop her shivering.

Midnight came. She kept her hand clamped over her mouth and her gaze fixed on her lover, tears coursing freely from her unblinking eyes.

 _Just make it til the morning._ Even as her heart broke, watching him transform, even as she felt the full weight of knowing that she had not been his cure, despite all the hope and love she held—she willed herself not to wail and scream, not to do anything but keep her eyes on him and make sure that he was still safe, still asleep, still unaware.

For the first time, she allowed herself to contemplate what life would look like, without him. Impossible. It looked utterly impossible.

 _Just make it til the morning_ , she reminded herself. He would return to his true form.

Except, now, this was part of his true form as well. His character and his self were unchanged, in all the ways that mattered—but from now until she found a cure, this was still part of him, too.

And she still loved him. Her heart ached with the certainty of it. Everything would be alright in the morning, because he’d still be here, and she’d still be loving him, through it all.

She gave a small nod of self-agreement, pulling her knees into her chest and keeping her eyes locked on his unconscious form.

_Just make it til the morning._


	33. Monstrous Things

**Hochebuz Castle (in the southern wilderness), Cintra.**

It was finally time, Calanthe decided. With a soft smile, she ran her hand over the small swell of her stomach. She was truly certain—had been for weeks, she’d missed her courses for the third time and had been nauseous in the mornings. But today, she’d felt it—the first quickening, a sure sign of the life growing within.

Roegner would be pleased. He’d whooped with joy, when she’d told him of Pavetta—she’d waited longer, that time, after the previous two disappointments. By then, she’d known for certain that she had a healthy, strong child within her, one that had lasted longer than the others.

It was the same with this one. It had survived farther than the two she’d lost, and now, today, it proved that it was healthy, too.

She stopped outside the library, taking a moment to compose herself. She pushed down a wave of joy, stifling the giggle bubbling in her lungs at the thought of finally being able to share this with him.

That’s when she heard it.

Her blood ran cold and her heart stopped at the first slithering hiss, audible but unintelligible.

 _No_.

No, she’d killed the dragon—she knew she had, all those years ago. Ten years ago— _a whole decade_ , and all had been silent, all had been well.

And yet, her body knew the truth. It recoiled and reacted with the same sense of revulsion and fear—there was no denying the voice she heard.

But it wasn’t speaking to her, she realized with a sudden flash of surprise. All those times, all those years ago, she’d never heard it speak to anyone but her—she didn’t know that it could communicate with others, much less still be heard by her.

And yet—

 _My creation is well?_ The voice queried, as rasping and terrifying as ever.

“Yes,” Roegner answered. “Quite well. And she speaks of wishing for another child—”

_A good sign, indeed. She is better built for it than her mother, it seems._

“She birthed our child without any complications,” Roegner agreed. “I’d say she’s quite suited to the task.”

Another rumbling rasp of approval from the dragon.

Calanthe felt her throat tighten with the urge to retch. The bitter taste of bile blossomed at the back of her throat.

Not again. And not—not Roegner, helping this vile creature.

 _You will give her drink_ , the dragon commanded. _Attend carefully, and prepare it just as I say. Give it to her, tonight after you have dined together. When she is truly succumbed, you will leave her to me._

Calanthe clamped her hand over her mouth, fingernails biting into her own flesh. No—Roegner would never, he could never—

“As you wish, Great One,” he answered, shattering her heart completely.

Her vision blurred and the world spun. She clutched her mouth tighter, trying to control her breathing, but she couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen.

Still, she forced herself to stay. To listen. To learn the secret of the magical tea, that would render her completely unconscious and fully at the non-existent mercy of the dragon.

She listened to the man she loved more than anyone, quietly agreeing to betray her, to give her over to absolute destruction without a moment’s hesitation, even as she stood in the shadows, clutching her hand over his child that she sheltered inside her own body, supposedly created in love and trust.

Finally, she slipped away, before Roegner could realize that she was there. She did not allow herself anymore tears.

She had far too much work to do.

* * *

She remembered the dragon’s instructions well—as if she could ever forget a single word uttered by that vicious, vile voice—and made her tea accordingly.

If Roegner planned to have her drink it after dinner, then she would simply be a step ahead. She’d find a way to give it to him _during_ dinner.

She tasked her lady’s maid with going out to buy a remedy, to stop the child growing in her womb. Her maid’s eyes went wide, but she knew better than to ask questions. She knew of Calanthe’s temper, well enough. And Calanthe did not care what the woman thought of her—never had, truth be told. She had always been an oddity to the servants of Hochebuz, Calanthe knew that much. She was no fool—she knew they whispered all sorts of things about her, when she was not around. She had no time for the opinions of those who had no idea what she’d endured, what she was or what she’d become because of it.

Her mind went over her plan, still half-mad with panic.

She would not hesitate, would not give the dragon a moment more to possibly bend her to his will completely this time. She would drug Roegner, and take Pavetta away, as far away as she could. She would burn this place to the ground—a final message to her sire, a final way of showing that she would never return, would never be anywhere that he could reach her, ever again.

She took the cloak from her wardrobe—her mother’s cloak, embroidered with the lions of Cintra—and carefully tucked it away, under the bed.

It was easier than she’d expected, finding a way to hide the sleeping draught in his drink at dinner. She only put in small amounts at a time, smiled and plied him with more wine. He was jovial and…almost celebratory, in his mood.

It only broke her heart all the more. He was overjoyed at the thought of what would come, what would happen to her tonight, if his scheme with the dragon was successful. He genuinely delighted at the idea of her becoming the mother to some awful, evil thing, sired by her own father.

She’d never known the man at all, she realized dazedly. All this time, he’d merely charmed her into believing that he loved her—that she could ever be loved, misshapen and monstrous creation that she was.

Death and destruction. That was her destiny. Well, they would certainly see it tonight.

Roegner was already stumbling by the time she helped him to their chambers. He mumbled something about a drink for her, and she assured him that she’d gladly drink some. It seemed reassurance enough—he all but collapsed into their bed, snoring soundly within minutes.

Gingerly, she rolled him onto his back, gathered her skirts and straddled his hips (gods above, how many times had they been like this, far more intimately, and she’d been so convinced that it was _love_ between them, that they were making love, the princess and her white knight, like something out of an insipid fairy tale—what a foolish, foolish, _stupid_ thing she was!). Then she leaned in, slowly placing her hands around his neck.

She began to squeeze, with all her might.

He barely twitched, barely seemed to notice the lack of oxygen. She kept squeezing, til her arms and shoulders began to shake and burn from effort—but still she felt the pulse in his jugular beneath her hands, felt the life still in his body as the minutes passed and her strength waned.

And what strength did she truly have? She was a princess, and had lived her life as one—dainty hands and soft muscles, unaccustomed to true work of any kind. Of course she’d never killed the dragon—how could she have, weakling that she was?

Tears burned her eyes as she forced herself to press harder, her whole body shaking with the effort. Her muscles screamed as her breathing became heavier, more frantic.

But still, he lived. She sat back, feeling defeated. Then, realizing their positions, she quickly retreated farther, moving off him and leaving the bed entirely.

She clutched her stomach again. She could not leave this room until she was certain that he was dead. That much she knew. She looked around, mind spinning as it tried to come up with a solution.

Her gaze landed on her vanity—surely something there could help. Her hair pins and combs were sharp, but not sharp enough. Then, with a sudden flash of relief, she saw her jar of powder. She moved forward swiftly, lifting up the glass jar and shattering it against the wooden top of her vanity.

Roegner still did not stir. He slept on, his breathing slightly raspier due to her attempts to strangle him.

Her hands shook as she selected the largest piece of glass. Something slid down her cheek—she was crying, she realized numbly, though she couldn’t imagine why.

Why should she cry over such a man? Why should she mourn something that never existed? Why should she hesitate, knowing what he was, what he’d truly done to her—what he was willing to do to her, if only he’d had the chance?

And yet still, she cried. She cried the entire time she slit his throat.

Once the bloody task was completed, she retreated back to the opposite wall, sinking down with shaking, blood-stained hands as she listened to her husband's last, gurgling breaths. She would stay. She would stay, until she was certain that he was truly dead and gone.

She would not make the same mistake twice. She would stay awake, and make sure her enemy was truly defeated.

And then, and only then, she would take her daughter and run for their lives.

She trembled, listening to the wretched sounds. Still, she kept her eyes open, focused on the bed where she’d turned her vows into actions, where she thought she’d created life and love with a man who loved her in return.

She should have known. She was not some princess in a fairy tale, to save or be saved and live happily ever after. She was a monster, only capable of monstrous things.


	34. Cure or No Cure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my loves, this is our penultimate update. I hate having notes on my final chapter, so I'll just say it now: thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments, everyone who reblogged and pm'd on tumblr, and anyone who dared to take the journey and hang around this long. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> (and, as always, come find me @marvellouslymadmim on tumblr for a playlist link and other extras, if bonus content is your sort of thing)

**Ard Carraigh, Temeria.**

**Eighteen Years Later.**

Eist awoke feeling utterly exhausted. But he also awoke to a sight similar to the last one he’d seen, before succumbing to the sleeping draught—Calanthe, seated on her knees in front of him, gently running her fingers through his hair.

“Hello,” she said simply, once she realized that he was awake.

“Hullo,” he returned softly.

She lifted his hand, placing a light kiss on his wrist. She’d already removed his cuffs, he realized.

“Were you…safe?” He wasn’t sure what to ask, much less how to ask it. His mouth felt dry, his tongue still a bit numb. His brain seemed to lag, still.

She blinked at that.

“Of course,” she rasped. “I was with you.”

Tears stung his eyes, hot and heavy. He still felt utterly drained, as if he could melt into the stones beneath him and never return. His muscles ached, all the way down to his bones.

He knew.

“So it didn’t work,” he surmised. Despite the signs, he’d still held out a measure of hope that the curse had been broken. She was his cure. He knew it. Why hadn’t it worked?

“No,” she admitted softly. Her own eyes glistened in response. Her hand came up to stroke the side of his face. “We will find a cure. I promise.”

He wanted to believe. Oh, how he wanted to believe. And yet—he found himself too exhausted, still too filled with pain to summon such hope and optimism.

“And if we don’t?”

The question hung in the air, for a long, heavy beat.

“We will,” she insisted, in barely a whisper.

“Calanthe.” He opened his eyes again, focusing on her. Even that seemed to take great effort, his vision swimming slightly as his body still throbbed with exhaustion.

She looked away, as if completely dismissing his unspoken reply.

Still, this was something that could not be ignored—he’d promised himself, at Gors Velen, that he would do what was necessary to keep her safe. He felt just as shameful and dangerous as he had the first time—and found himself considering the same options that he had considered then, too. “Calanthe, we have…we have to consider—”

“No, we don’t—”

“If we cannot find a cure—”

“We will. Don’t say such—”

“There needs to be some kind of…alternative in place.” It pained him to say it, but it still needed to be said.

She stopped, staring at him in such terror that his heart broke.

“No.” She said simply. “There is…no alternative.”

“Calanthe—”

“No. I cannot cure you; I know that, and I accept it, as much as it hurts to be so close to being everything you need to break the curse and yet still not quite enough—and yes, fine, perhaps we never find a cure.” Calanthe shook as she finally allowed the truth to fully leave her lips. But it was followed by a deeper, surer truth as well: “But I don’t—I don’t _care_ , Eist. I am here, and I will stay. With or without a cure. And I will love you, with every ounce of my being, just as I always have, with or without a curse.”

In that moment, she felt and believed the absolute truth of her words. She loved him. Had loved him, for what seemed like ages now. The thought of losing him was physically painful—what choice did she have, but to fight tooth and nail for him, even if it meant fighting _him_?

And she would fight. She would cry, or beg, or threaten—whatever it took to make him stay. Want had become need, and she would forever be a dragon in this regard: she had become greedy for his love, his affection, his smile and his kindness and his stupid sense of humor and his off-tune whistling and his logical mind and his romantic heart. She would never have enough of it, and she would not part with it, not for anything in the world. She would not stop loving him, regardless of this curse (she never had stopped loving him, so what surprise was that, truly?). She had literally watched him transform into a monster, and even then, all she had been able to do was love him.

She was a dragon, she reminded herself. She could convince him to do anything. She would not use her charms, no—she would plead her case, make him hear and see and feel her devotion. Words had never been her strong suit, but she would try. She would stay here, use every ounce of breath in her lungs to convince him that she was true, that she was devoted and unwaveringly steadfast, that she was worthy of his love and being allowed to love him in return.

Eist could feel the rising, coiling feeling in the air, emanating off Calanthe's shoulders in waves as palpably as the heat of a fire. She was trembling uncontrollably now, shifting to lean over him fully, taking his face in both her hands and locking her gaze onto his with overwhelming earnestness.

“If we cannot cure it, then we live with it,” she told him, her tone breaking with emotion. “You are—unchanged, to me. We will find a way to cure it, or we will find a way to live with it—”

“Calanthe—”

“Bite me, curse me, change me, too—I do not care, I will go where you go, I will be where you are.” She leaned down suddenly, pushing her forehead against his. She closed her eyes and he felt her tears, falling onto his skin. “I will not be without you.”

She was so certain, so broken and overflowing with love—he brought his hand to the back of her head, brushed his nose against hers.

“Eist,” she breathed, brushing her lips against his skin. “Eist, I love you. And I will stay. I promised to stay, no matter what—this does not change that promise, in the least. Please—just—let me love you. Let me promise to take care of you and then let me _actually_ do it. Please. Please just let me.”

She shifted, moving farther down his body to place her cheek against his chest. “You gave me your heart—please let me keep it. Let me keep you. If I cannot cure you, still let me love you—as you are, as however you may be, now and always.”

She closed her eyes softly again, and Eist nearly wept at the sight. She was so fervent, so shining and full of love.

How could he ever do anything, but give her exactly what she asked? Once again, he knew that it had never been the pull of her dragon’s charm—it had always simply been her, in all her ferocity and tenderness, in all her shades and forms, chaos at its purest and best.

He simply reached up, stroked the side of her cheek. She caught his wrist, held his hand there.

“I will,” he promised, a bit too choked with emotion to say much else. He took a long, shaking breath, letting the certainty and agreement settle into his bones. “I will…stay, too. Cure or no cure, I will stay. And I will love and be loved by you. Now and always. No matter what.”

Her shoulders began to shake with relief.

And then, suddenly, his body was the one shaking—sharp shooting pains tore through his limbs, making him cry out in agony.

“Eist! Eist!” Calanthe was absolutely shrieking, trying to hold on to him, trying to hold him down, to help however she could. He was writhing, rolling onto his side.

The last thing he saw was her face, leaning over his again, etched with pure terror as her mouth moved, calling to him.

And in the darkness, he still heard her voice, calling his name.


	35. We Shall Do Well

**Brokilon Forest, Verden.**

“You’ll like it here,” the Badger promised, giving Eist’s shoulder a light smack of reassurance as he led the way through the thicket of trees, towards the large roaring fire in the small clearing.

He didn’t need to like it, Eist thought. He needed to make a solid month’s earnings—and that was what the Badger had promised, earlier in the day when they’d chanced upon each other at the local blacksmith’s. Eist had been replacing his karambits, which had been severely damaged during his last monster hunt. The Badger had introduced himself, explaining that he was part of a group of hunters who were off to fight a dragon, and who’d be glad of an extra set of hands.

It promised to pay handsomely—a commission laid out by a king, no less. Eist’s empty stomach and threadbare clothes had been unable to refuse such an offer. So he’d packed up his horse and followed the man into Brokilon, hoping it was a genuine offer and not some strange trap.

He followed the Badger into the clearing, looking around as the older man introduced him to the assembled hunters. A few gruff older men nodded in greeting. There were a few younger ones, too, still bright-eyed and eager at the chase.

“And that there’s our very own Lioness,” the Badger motioned directly across the large fire.

Eist hadn’t really seen her, due the brightness of the flames. But she sat up a little straighter, watching him cautiously. Her eyes were dark, made darker still by the heavy kohl around her eyes. She didn’t smile.

She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Both darkness and light—dark features against skin that practically glowed, almost as brightly as the fire—emanating a deadliness and aloofness that only made him want to lean in more.

He dragged his gaze away, lest it become completely obvious, his instant attraction. The Badger finished introductions and gave Eist a seat at the fire. The conversation continued, the hunters swapping tales of daring deeds past.

They didn’t ask Eist too many questions. That was the rule of hunters. To them, he was the Hound, and he was an ally against a dragon. They needed no further information. Eist merely sat and listened, occasionally chiming in with an experience or two of his own. But for the most part, he simply observed.

He wasn’t the only one. The Lioness was to his left, and he was far enough around the fire that he could glance over at her without it being quite so obvious. She was seated, arms crossed over her chest as she leaned back against a log, her dark eyes scanning over the group, darting from whomever was speaking to the next.

She did not speak, at all. The others didn’t seem to mind, which led Eist to believe that it was a common occurrence.

Perhaps she couldn’t speak. Heavens knew she didn’t have to—those big, dark eyes were expressive enough, Eist realized. He could tell her general reaction to whatever was being said, simply by her eyes.

At one point, she glanced over, directly at him—as if she’d been aware of his staring, the whole time. He merely offered a smile, trying to not appear too eager or too threatening.

She merely stared blankly back, as if he were some strange riddle. Then she blinked, and looked away.

The evening turned into night, and slowly, people filtered away from the fire. The Badger gave the first watch to the Lioness and Eist (who tried not to grin at his wild luck, having a chance to truly spend more time with the beautiful stranger).

Neither of them moved from their posts, even after everyone was gone to their own bedrolls, farther in the shadow of the trees. Then, without warning, the Lioness stood, walked quickly over to him and sat down a few feet away, so abruptly that he felt a ripple of confusion.

“Where are you from, Hound?” She asked, her tone low and rich. He loved it instantly.

“An Skellig.” He offered easily, unsure why she cared.

“Been on the continent long?”

“A few weeks.”

“And…never before?” There was something cautious, something searching in her tone.

“Aye, never,” he answered softly. “I spent most of my time sailing the seas, up north. This is the farthest south I’ve ever been. Didn’t have much reason to venture onto the continent.”

“But now you do.” A statement, not a question.

He shrugged. “I haven’t a crew to sail with anymore. And after a while, the sea monsters…well, anyone can kill those types. And no one pays well enough to make them worthwhile, these days.”

She hummed at that. “So…you’re here for the money?”

He nodded. Then, with a slight grin, he added, “Though I wouldn’t mind taking home a bit of dragon. Just as a trophy.”

She looked over at him again, as if measuring him, in some way. “You don’t care for dragons.”

“I don’t think they much care for me, either,” he pointed out, in a feigned philosophical air.

She huffed at that.

A long, but not uncomfortable, silence reigned.

Calanthe took a deep breath. The moment that the Hound had appeared, his blue eyes searing into her across the flames, she’d felt an inexplicable pull. But then, he’d kept glancing over at her, and her heart had slammed into overdrive—he looked at her, as if he knew her somehow…had he been sent by her sire?

But no, his answers to her questions confirmed that. The dragon had many slaves and willing sycophants. But they all resided to the south, on the continent. Over half a decade, she’d been learning everything she could about the secret order, how they operated and who they were (and when she found one, oh—they truly learned what it meant to anger a dragon, well enough). None of them had ever had a connection to the isles, or sailing.

And for some reason, she trusted him. Trusted that his answers had been honest. Why on earth, she had no idea.

But he was…safe. That much she knew.

“What are you?” She asked, turning back to him in mild curiosity. It went against the code, but she didn’t fucking care. She adhered to the rules when it suited her, but that was out of convenience, not loyalty or morality. After all, she was a monster—what business did she have, making oaths of honor?

He blinked, obviously surprised and well-aware of the faux-pas she was committing. Still, he answered, “A siren, as it were.”

“As it were,” she repeated, with a slight smile. Yes, now it made sense. The striking blue eyes, the way her skin sang, being so close to him. The reason he unsettled her, with a glance.

He looked over, almost chagrined. Her smile deepened. A siren, but one who meant no harm.

“Can you sing?” She asked, filled with a sudden playfulness. She wasn’t sure why.

He huffed softly at that. “No. Not a whit.”

“Can you whistle?”

“But barely.”

“Hum a tune?”

“On-key or off?”

“Some siren you are,” she drawled, arching her brow. “Tis probably for the best that you go hunting monsters instead of humans, with such lacking charms.”

He chuckled softly at that, dipping his head. “My charms serve me just fine, I assure you.”

“Do they?” Her curiosity was piqued.

Now he looked up at her again, jolting her heart with another flash of his beautiful blue eyes. Neither of them was speaking about actual hunting, and they were both well-aware of it. “You speak with such shock—would it really surprise you to know such things?”

She couldn’t stop her smile from blossoming. “I suppose anything is possible.”

He lifted his brows at that, giving a soft huff of amusement at her barely-concealed barb.

“And what are you?” Eist shifted—if this Lioness could break the rules, then certainly so could he. Right now, he’d place his bets upon a harpy at first glance—but those eyes, oh, she could almost be a siren herself.

“Dragon,” she announced, with a smile that was all teeth and no warmth.

She watched him for a full beat, as if daring him to react.

Eist felt a prick of surprise—more so at the directness of her gaze, at such close range. Her eyes were so dark, he could see the flames flickering in them—yes, yes, of course she was a dragon, all fire and fury and destructive beauty.

And she was still waiting for him to respond.

“Interesting commission for you, then,” he pointed out lightly.

The corner of her mouth flickered. “Interesting, indeed.”

She held his gaze for another full beat. Eist felt lost entirely, and helpless to do anything but wish to stay lost forever more. He realized that his earlier quip was actually quite true, in a far deeper sense—he truly wouldn’t mind taking home a bit of dragon, especially if it looked like this.

Finally, she turned her face back to the fire. “I have never met a half-siren before.”

“And I have never met a half-dragon before.”

She hummed at that.

He held out his hand, “But so far, tis pleasant to have finally met one.”

She looked at his hand for a moment, as if both amused and uncertain as to why he was offering it. Then she gently took it with her own, giving a curt shake.

But she must have felt it, too—the odd feeling snaking up Eist’s arm, the rippling sense of electricity. He glanced down at their hands, still clasped. Steam rose slightly from their embrace.

The Lioness did not pull away—no, she tightened her grip and pulled his hand closer, to better inspect it. Her brows quirked and her eyes were wide with absolute curiosity. She was adorable, he decided suddenly. Somehow both exactly and nothing like the creature he’d first seen, walking into camp tonight.

“Water meets fire,” he guessed. “It’s bound to get a little steamy.”

Her dark eyes flicked back up to meet his, one brow slowly arching at the double-entendre of his words. He hadn’t meant to make an innuendo like that, and yet, he couldn’t find the words to actually deny it. She was still fighting back a smile, and he was helpless to do anything but grin in turn.

A beat passed. The steam kept rising. They both broke into soft laughter.

She withdrew her hand. “We shall do well, Hound. We shall do well.”

He smiled softly in agreement, looking down at his hand, his palm still flushed deeper red than the rest of his skin.

Most noticeably, the heartline, crimson across the top of his palm.

He nodded to himself. _We shall do well._


	36. To the Moon and the Stars

**Ard Carraigh, Temeria.**

**Eleven Years Later.**

Eist awoke to the familiar sight of painted vines above his head, and the familiar weight of Calanthe beside him. She stirred, upon feeling him wake, sitting up to look at him in gentle concern.

“You gave me quite a fright,” she informed him softly.

“Not by my own choosing,” he assured her. She made a small noise of agreement and understanding, reaching up to stroke the side of his face. Quietly, he asked, “What…happened?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Tissaia…Tissaia thinks we broke the curse, somehow. Your arm—it was quite red, along the veins. Just like when you were first bitten. But we don't know for sure.”

“What could have changed?” He asked, brows furrowing.

Calanthe took a deep, steadying breath. “Well—I think, perhaps, you were right. In many ways, I did hold the key to your cure. I am a princess, and I…I have had true love before, through my connection with Pavetta. And I love you truly.”

“Right.” He gave a small, slight nod. “But all of that was true before the full moon.”

Her eyes swelled with tears. “But…we had not fully loved. Not entirely. Not unconditionally—not _truly_. Before, we still...planned everything around finding a cure. So it was, technically, still conditional. Tissaia thinks—she thinks it was the moment that we agreed to stay, the moment we chose to continue and to love—the moment I chose to love you, cure or no cure, and the moment you chose to accept my love so completely—that is the moment every part of the cure was fulfilled."

“See?” His heart swelled with adoration, even as his eyes swelled with tears. He reached up for her, quietly decreeing, “I knew you would cure me.”

She shook her head softly. “It wasn’t me, Eist. It was—it was you, choosing to let me love you. Choosing to be loved as you were, even if…even if it meant never being cured. That was what broke the curse.”

“So the cure was simply accepting the curse?” He frowned.

She nodded.

“What utter bullshit.”

She laughed at that, quick and far too loudly, caught off-guard by the suddenness of his statement.

“I’m serious, Calanthe—that really was all it took?”

“Well, not all. I mean, it wasn’t an easy road—”

“But had we known—”

“We did know, technically. We just didn’t realize—”

“Utter, absolute horseshit. Who creates these stupid cures?”

She was laughing again, leaning in to kiss him warmly. “I do not care. If you are cured, then I am the happiest woman alive. And if you are not, I am still the happiest woman alive—because I have you, and your precious, wonderful heart. I am entirely content.”

His hands came to her hips, pulling her closer. “Surely not _entirely_ content…”

She chuckled again, dipping her head to bump her nose against his. “That’s a very different sort of discontent, Eist Tuirseach. And I’m afraid in that regard, I shall be forever wanting.”

“Forever?”

“Forever.” She punctuated the decree with a kiss.

“We must try to resolve that,” he informed her, tone filled with mock seriousness.

She was grinning so deeply that her eyes were mere slits.

“Let me love you,” he whispered gently. She melted further against him, giving a small, aching sound at the thought. “Now and always.”

She made another sound of agreement, bringing her mouth back to his and kissing him fiercely.

It truly didn’t matter, he realized. While he hoped to be cured, he could live without it. Calanthe would keep him safe, every full moon. And he would keep her safe, every other moment of their life together. He felt like such a fool, looking back at his past actions—the need to run away, to withdraw from her, to doubt even for a second the love built between them—and resolved to never be so foolish again.

They had chosen this. And yes, they’d made a promise to keep choosing it, long before they could even imagine all that it would entail—still, there were so many things that could happen, in the years to come, so much they could not foresee, even now.

The years to come. The thought filled him with soft joy. He held her tighter and rolled them across the bed, earning a startled burble of surprise from Calanthe, who began to laugh breathlessly as she slid out of the bed, cheeks burning with joy as well.

“I really should tell the others that you’ve recovered,” she announced. There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

“They can wait,” he informed her, reaching for her again. She side-stepped, but only slightly, and certainly not with the actual intention to escape. He grabbed her hips and hauled her back into his lap—she instantly crashed her lips into his with a warm growl of approval, pushing him back onto the mattress completely.

Calanthe sat up slightly, just enough to properly look down into Eist’s smiling face. He looked so carefree, so happy again—the way he was always meant to be. He was joy—her joy, _hers_ entirely.

Her mantra had proven true, yet again: _everything will be alright in the morning_. The late morning sun was streaming through the open windows, and everything was alright— _more_ than alright.

Regardless of the curse, regardless of the cure—it was a fairy tale, beyond anything she could have wished for, in all her life.

* * *

What followed the truly the happiest month of Eist’s life. He spent his days touring Ard Carraigh, learning more from Vanielle and Mousesack and Tissaia, further integrating himself into life at the keep. He took care of Calanthe during the usual discomforts of her courses, and learned new remedies as well—he stood by her side in the keep’s kitchen as she created various teas and liniments for Pavetta or the baker’s child, who’d been badly burned reaching in to the stone oven, listening intently as she quietly explained each ingredient and how to measure and mix it in accordingly. And he found that, even though she wore her veil (since the kitchen was filled with servants, already preparing the evening meal), he could still practically _see_ her expression, the serious concentration upon her face as she worked, much like their days in Velhad. And he found it all the more rewarding when finally, they made their way upstairs again, and he had a moment to pull her into an alcove and lift that veil, acting upon impulses he’d felt the entire time she’d been giving her lessons.

He bought more flowers for her at the market, and learned more from that, as well. Holding true to her genteel education, Calanthe quietly explained the symbolism and uses for each flower he brought her—and yes, even let him weave them into her hair, later, when they were entirely alone and certain to be undisturbed for the rest of the evening. After that, Eist sought to learn the language of flowers, and took to leaving small bouquets in various places where Calanthe would eventually find them: her wardrobe, the pocket of her dress, the box where she kept her veils, the table beside her bed or her chair in the great hall, where she would come to sit and listen to the pleadings and grievances of her tenants, once a week. The girl at the wildflower stall soon knew him by name, and always beamed at his approach. She learned the palette he favored, based on Calanthe’s complexion, and just as quickly became his ally in choosing flowers for their color and their symbolism, creating bouquets like love letters.

Life became gentle, predictable and calm in a way that he never would have expected, given the unpredictable and tempestuous woman at the center of it all. 

It would hurt, he realized, to leave this place and its people behind.

But that was surely becoming the general consensus. No one had come looking for Duny, but everyone involved had agreed that it could only be a matter of time before another one of the dragon’s minions or offspring came to call. There wasn’t much choice but to abandon Ard Carraigh.

Tissaia de Vries returned to Foltest’s court and gave him the news: the baroness would be leaving soon, and therefore needed a suitable replacement. Foltest was both irritated at the abruptness of her departure and slightly relieved that he would no longer be housing a fugitive whose enemies included a dragon. Mousesack and Calanthe planned on how best to break the news to the people of Ard Carraigh, and spent their time ensuring the people would be looked after through the harvest and winter seasons, regardless of who the next baron might be. Eist often sat in on their discussions, forever slightly awed at just how pristinely his lover’s mind worked, how easily she planned for every eventuality and paid such fine attention to detail. It seemed almost completely juxtaposed to the brash and impetuous woman he’d met on a hunt, all those years ago—the one he’d known still, in Velhad, and even now, in the moments when she wasn’t busy being a baroness.

Sometimes, Calanthe would look up, catch the expression of admiration on his face, and duck her head again with a small smile and a large blush. It was always the most adorable thing, and he never tired of it. Just as he never tired of complimenting her cleverness, whenever they were alone (granted, it did earn him some very specific displays of gratitude in return—but truly, he just liked the way she looked, whenever he simply recognized and appreciated her skills and abilities). And Calanthe made sure that they still had plenty of time alone—walks through the gardens, rides through the hills, and even one wonderfully memorable trip up to a spring in the mountains ( _it’s not the sea, my love_ , she’d quietly bemoaned, _but it will have to do, for now_ ). Sometimes it was simply a quiet afternoon in the receiving room, simply being in each other’s presence as Calanthe read over applications and replied to missives and Eist continued reading about flowers or herbs or whatever book Pavetta had recommended at dinner the prior evening.

He relished it all. Relished the odd quietness of this life, and how it gave him time to truly just be with her, in ways that he’d never even dared to imagine, before Velhad.

He decided that, cure or no cure, the werewolf’s bite had been the best damn thing to ever happen to him.

Well, _second_ best. It had given him this woman, who was truly the best damn thing to ever happen to him.

They talked about everything. They found that neither had a high store of happy childhood memories, and chose instead to focus on creating new memories now, with each other. They argued about the best weapon to use on each particular type of monster (an old argument, to be sure, but one that was still thoroughly entertaining), and discussed whatever new matter a tenant had brought up to Calanthe during the weekly audience. They still worked as a team, just as they had in Velhad, and Eist found that he cherished the feeling, more than he’d previously realized.

They did not, however, talk about the curse. There was a feeling of a mutually held breath between them, a hopefulness that seemed too fragile to speak aloud just yet.

And yet still, they planned around it. Once Foltest had been informed of Lady Fiona’s impending departure, the group agreed that they would wait until after the next full moon, to be certain that Eist had truly been cured. After that, they would need to move quickly—Pavetta was approaching the point of her pregnancy when such long travel would not be possible.

Pavetta remained surprisingly optimistic, given her circumstances, Eist thought. Then again, she was protected by a druid, a sorceress, and her mother, the fiercest creature on the continent. Eist supposed it couldn’t get much more secure than that.

Still, he worried. Worried over Pavetta, over Calanthe, over all of them and what this next step would mean, what it would bring.

Vanielle declared that her destiny was now tied to them as well. She returned to Brugge for a short time, to settle her accounts and sell her house, bringing back a few simple items on a pack horse. Calanthe, naturally, seemed less-than-enthused, but Eist knew most of it was feigned ( _most of it, not all of it_ ). When Vanielle came back, she began studying with Tissaia, to better develop her skills and gifts.

Pavetta would start working with Tissaia, too, once the babe was born. For now, she spent her days wondering and waiting.

Often, during those times of simply waiting, she stumbled across Eist, in the garden or the library or the corridor. They’d talk for quite a while, about books or Ard Carraigh or the nature of monsters and man. After nearly two weeks, Eist began to realize that their meetings weren’t accidental in the least—Pavetta was seeking him out. He was both delighted at the small sign of trust and amused that yes, she was entirely her mother’s child, never directly making her wishes known, always trying to appear aloof and unaffected. Still, he always pretended to be surprised at her arrival, and always silently rejoiced at her company and the trust it implied.

Calanthe noticed. Adored it, and was quite demonstrative in her adoration, when they were alone. Pavetta had Mousesack, of course, who had been more of a father to her than her own had been—but Calanthe also hoped that Pavetta could see in Eist all the qualities for a good partner, and a solid relationship. _I have never been able to show her how romantic love should be,_ she’d admitted one night, as they’d lain in bed, looking up at the painted vines. _I should like to be able to do so. To…prevent anyone from ever abusing her affections again. If she sees what love should truly be like, she will know how to recognize it—and recognize its imposters—in the future._

Eist had been more than happy to aid her in the endeavor—and said as much, both physically and verbally. He redoubled his efforts in showing his admiration and adoration outside their bedroom, too.

The full moon got closer. Eist did not feel jittery, did not feel restless—though he did still feel quite passionately about Calanthe, so it was hard to tell if the usual side-effects were rearing their head again, or if it were simply the side-effect of spending more time genuinely getting to know her, and falling deeper in love.

And then, finally, the night of the full moon arrived.

* * *

Calanthe kept her eyes locked on the moon, through the small window of the holding cell. She still clutched the pocket watch in her hand, pressing her fist against her chest as she continued staring up at the night sky.

 _She’s beautiful_ , Eist thought warmly. _Absolutely perfect._

He didn’t say so aloud—he’d hate to break her concentration, to break the soft quiet spell of simply getting to watch her deeply focusing on something. Instead, he merely shifted, readjusting the cuffs around his wrist.

The curse was broken. He knew it. Still, they’d taken precautions—now all they needed to do was wait.

Calanthe blinked quickly, as if starting from a dream. Took a half-step back, glanced at the watch in her hand.

“What time is it?” Eist asked softly.

“Half-past one o’clock,” she answered, just as quietly. She looked over at him, eyes shining in the moonlight. “If…if it were going to happen, it would have certainly happened by now.”

Eist merely held out his hands, as if to show her that it hadn’t happened.

She let out a rushing, relieved breath as she moved back to him. She fell to her knees and simply smiled, sweetly enough to crack the whole world open.

“I told you,” he said simply. “You were my cure.”

She tamped her mouth into a thin line—holding back her usual retort, he knew, her usual explanation of how, no, she had not been his cure, but rather he’d been his own (slowly, she was beginning to accept that he would allow no other narrative than to let her be his heroine, no matter how many times she tried to correct it). Instead, she merely reached up to caress the side of his face before leaning in to capture his mouth in a kiss, gently pressing him back into the stone wall behind him.

He hummed in approval—and once their lips parted, quietly suggested, “Maybe I should keep the cuffs on, just a little while longer.”

Calanthe smirked at the (now rather predictable) suggestion. Her heart was still soaring, hammering in her chest with joy and relief. She bumped her nose against his. “No. I want you free, in every way.”

He smiled softly in reply, and her heart clenched again with another wave of adoration and affection. She sat back, quickly unlocking the cuffs and placing light kisses on his wrists. His hands stayed up, cupping the sides of her face.

“It’s over, love,” he gently reminded her. She had to close her eyes at that, at the sheer tidal wave of emotion the pronouncement brought. She placed her hands over his, holding them in place as she burrowed further into his hands, relishing the coolness of his palms against her skin.

His palms. All this time, even before they knew each other, his palms had carried this story upon them. These hands, which had held her and loved her and touched her very soul with compassion and passion, had known her, long before he had even known of her existence.

It truly was a fairytale.

“Come.” She shifted back again, slowly rising to her feet. She smiled at the way he watched her, all wide-eyed and more than eager to follow her to the ends of the earth.

 _I will walk by your side, whatever path you choose._ That was the promise he’d made, their first day at Ard Carraigh. And she knew, even now, that he’d spend the rest of his life holding to it. After everything they’d overcome and survived, there would be nothing else that could break them apart. She moved farther back, keeping her eyes locked onto his as she leaned against the opposite wall, next to the open door.

He rose to his feet as well, still so curious and hopeful. Oh, how could she not love this man?

She wanted him, always. Wanted to celebrate and create more joy between them. But now, specifically, she wanted to lay him out beneath the moonlight, to find delight where there had been fear, to prove they’d conquered the curse in every way.

She passed through the doorway, offering one last heated look over her shoulder as she disappeared into the corridor. She heard his footsteps across the stone floor and doubled her pace, all but racing up the staircase that would wind all the way up to the garden.

The keep was practically silent at this time of night—she heard his footsteps echoing up the stone staircase, could hear his breathing, and her own, the rustling of her skirts as she kept climbing, knowing full well he’d catch her soon enough.

Then his arm was around her waist, strong and sure, pulling her back and pinning her against him. She half-turned, bracing her hands on the stone wall for balance as she breathed heavily (running in a corset was never advised, but adding stairs didn’t help, gods above—but that wasn’t truly why she was so breathless, she knew). He was breathing heavily, too, his breath gusting against the nape of her neck as he leaned in, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses across her skin.

She couldn’t stop the sound she made, echoing up the stone stairway, seeming even more profane in the quiet stillness of the night. He made a low sound of approval, his hand coming up to squeeze her breast as his teeth tested on the line of her shoulder, currently exposed by the neckline of her dress.

Tears surged in her eyes, hot and thick. Oh, it was a fairy tale, all too wonderful to be true. There was still so much uncertainty, so much ahead of them—the dragon still hunted her, and Pavetta was only just beginning her long journey into life—but oh, it was all so much more bearable, knowing that he was here, with her, always. They had broken curses and slain monsters together, how could anything stand against them?

Calanthe turned in his arms, keeping their bodies pressed together as much as possible as she shifted to face him. Moonlight shone through the high, narrow windows of the tower, flooding her face and making her tears shine like stars.

He’d dreamt of this, exactly this. The realization bolted through him like lightning. On his voyage from Gors Velen to An Skellig—he’d dreamt of this exact moment, the chase up the stairs and the tears and the soft, adoring smile that she currently wore.

This had all been in his stars, he realized with another surge of joy—their love, his curse, her cure. Everything in his life—the good, the bad, the seemingly inconsequential and mundane—had led him here, to this moment with her. And there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

He thanked himself for every foolish mistake he’d ever made, for every misstep taken—because in the end, it had all put him exactly where he was meant to be.

He slipped his hand to the back of her neck, pulling her into a kiss. She twittered and melted, testing her teeth against his tongue and letting him in deeper as her arms wrapped around his neck, holding on for dear life.

 _Let me love you, let me keep you_ , she’d pleaded, just a month ago. He’d understood what it meant to love unconditionally—but he had since realized that he’d never known what it meant to be loved unconditionally, to allow himself to be loved and seen without hesitation or fear or holding back.

But, oh, was that ever a thing of the past. He held her tighter, pressing her against the wall.

“The garden,” she rasped, finally pulling away for air. Still she kept her lips just over his, kept brushing her nose against his, kept rocking her hips into his, their bodies shifting and finding synch against each other as easily as breathing. “Let me take you up to the garden. I want you—I want you in the moonlight.”

He wanted to laugh, and to weep—yes, there she was, his woman, as defiant and determined to give Destiny the middle finger as ever. Even now, when he could physically feel the relief and gratitude rattling through her frame, she still felt the need to taunt the universe and flaunt their good fortune, almost daring it for another fight.

She was forever a dragon, a thing of fire and fury—and he loved her, so very deeply, for exactly that. He pressed her against the wall with another kiss, gripping her hips and squeezing out the things his lips were too busy to say: _I love you, you daring, darling thing, my heroine and my dragon, all rolled into one._

Then he quietly took a step back, smiling so deeply that his cheeks twinged. “Lead the way.”

She grinned breathlessly, shifting to start up the stairs again. As she did, she reached back, her hand silently waiting for his.

He gladly took it, and up they went. Up, up to the garden and the moon and the stars, which had told their story, long before it had ever even begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, my loves, for every fairy tale must have a moral of sorts, and this is ours: love is a curative, but other people are not. No one else can fix us (though they can so easily break us!), or heal us or cure us in any way—just as we, in turn, can never fully do that for others. But we can love. We can love through and around the tough moments, we can meet each other in utter grace and understanding. And we can allow ourselves to be loved in the same way. We can realize that even with our “curses” and faults and failings, we are still worthy of love.  
> And when we allow ourselves to be seen—truly seen as we are, where we are, how we are—and loved for what is seen…well, that’s when the real magic happens. 
> 
> Now, we have one last little epilogue to this story…and hopefully a few of you will feel particularly fulfilled. It wasn’t entirely the ending I had planned, but a few of you made a suggestion that was too good to pass up. <3


	37. Epilogue: The Gate's Father and Mother

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk why, but in every universe, Cirilla will always call Eist "Granfer".
> 
> As always, check out the tumblr (@marvellouslymadmim) for the playlist and other extras.
> 
> And as always, thank you for taking this journey with me. It's been a delight and an honor. <3

**Six Years Later.**

**The North Shore, Thanedd Island.**

He could feel the odd humming in the air, the steady-reassuring pulse of his wife’s power, not too far away.

Eist sat on the beach, merely watching the waves roll in, as calming and beautiful as always. He took a deep breath, feeling quietly joyful at the grey morning and the scent of the sea.

Then a movement caught his eye—a sight far less peaceful but far more beautiful. His wife (his _wife_ , nearly seven years now and it still struck him with awe), returning from the water. It was midwinter now, far too cold for him to swim without catching hypothermia, but his wife’s higher body temperature meant that she still found the icy waves refreshing.

His grin deepened as he watched her pull her hair over her shoulder, twisting it to remove more water as she slowly walked onto the shore. He scooped up the linen towel and the heavier fur cloak beside him, going out to meet her halfway. The tide was retreating, making the sea farther away than it had been when he’d sat down.

She grinned back at him, and he could see the steam curling off her body, could see that she was just as delighted to see him, as if they’d been apart for days instead of half an hour. He wrapped the linen towel around her bare body, winging a kiss across her forehead and tasting brine.

“Invigorating?”

She merely hummed, shifting closer once he wrapped the fur around her as well. “A poor substitute for the cooling embrace of my little seal—"

“ _Big_ seal, thank you very much.”

She huffed in amusement at that, rising up on tiptoes and tilting her chin to better meet him in a kiss. Again, he tasted the sea and hummed in approval, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her fully into him.

“Either way, still mine,” she pointed out, once their lips parted again. She burrowed into the crook of his neck, the tip of her nose still so cold that he gave a little shiver when it nuzzled against his skin.

Her hair was already drying in the breeze, small strands lifting and wisping around his face—chaos even in the smallest of ways, he thought warmly.

Calanthe closed her eyes and rested her cheek against her husband’s chest, quietening her breathing to better hear his heart beating solidly against her ear. One of her greatest treasures, along with her daughter and now her granddaughter—this man and his heart, and all the ways they both were so devoted to loving her, so willingly kept in her dragon clutches.

He had given her more than just his heart. He’d given her peace, and joy. Continued to give her grace when her nature overcame her, to give endless patience and understanding beyond anything she could earn or understand herself. Continued to give her love that was both overwhelmingly passionate and unbelievably quiet and kind.

More than anything, she wanted to give him exactly that, right back.

She felt the ripple—the one she always felt, just before she heard the voice. She smiled softly and granted access, letting it slip through her mind.

 _Gramma_ , it insisted. _I want_ _Gramma, and Granfer. I need to see Gramma now!_

Her smile deepened. Their granddaughter Cirilla had only recently exhibited the ability to enter people’s thoughts—but she didn’t actually know that she did it. When she thought about someone deeply enough, that person could hear her voice, no matter where they were.

Tissaia had been fascinated, but everyone had agreed that perhaps it was best if Cirilla didn’t know of this ability until she was old enough to use it properly and respectfully.

For now, Cirilla’s voice had limits. Calanthe had to _choose_ to hear it, to let it enter her mind. She wasn’t sure if that was an ability only dragons possessed, or if it was the sheer force of her will. Or if…it was part of being the harbinger, and her connection to Cirilla as the gate. Regardless, she still relished the ability to be so deeply connected to her granddaughter—even if occasionally the voice appeared at inopportune times.

She gently pushed the voice out of her mind again before shifting to look up at her husband and quietly announce, “Chaos is on its way.”

He chuckled softly, well-aware of what she meant. “You should probably put some clothes on, then.”

She pouted slightly at that, but went along without verbal complaint. Eist went back to the clothes she’d abandoned in a pile earlier, helping her redress before their granddaughter arrived—and perhaps being less-than-helpful in the process of staying dressed, truth be told.

He held her hips and pulled her back in for a kiss.

There was a commotion from over the dune, and they both turned with knowing smiles in that direction—within seconds, their spindly-legged six-year-old granddaughter burst into view, kicking up sand as her white-blonde hair blew about crazily in the sea breeze.

“Granfer!” She declared delightedly. “Gramma! Music said we can have a picnic on the beach for breakfast!”

“Did he, now?” Calanthe’s tone was tinged with amusement. Mousesack—christened Music by Cirilla—was, predictably, a pushover. Pavetta must have already left for her daily training at the rectory when Cirilla awoke. That would explain why Music was in charge—which, in turn, explained the picnic.

“Sounds perfect,” Eist decreed, opening his arms for his granddaughter to tumble into them. He lifted her up, settling her easily on his hip as she wrapped her arms around him in a hug.

Calanthe leaned in and Ciri met her halfway, nuzzling their noses together in their usual show of affection.

“Gramma, your nose is cold.” Ciri scrunched her own nose, pulling away slightly. Then she noted, “And your hair is wet—silly woman, did you fall into the ocean?”

Eist snorted at that, ducking his head to avoid his wife’s gaze. He may or may not have been responsible for Ciri’s love of the phrase _silly woman_ , for which his wife had yet to forgive him.

“I did,” Calanthe confessed in mock seriousness. “This is why you have to keep an eye on me, always, my darling. Without you around to look after me, I get into all sorts of trouble.”

Cirilla sighed and shook her head, as if thoroughly beleaguered by her grandmother’s antics. Calanthe and Eist exchanged knowing smiles and tried not to let their granddaughter notice their amusement.

Mousesack and Vanielle appeared over the dune, holding hands—and in Mousesack’s other hand was a basket, stuffed with whatever breakfast Ciri had undoubtedly thrown together in her usual whirlwind of delight and chatter.

 _A child to change the world_ , Eist thought warmly. That was what Tissaia had predicted, when they’d first learned of her conception. And it was already true—she had changed their world, even before the hour of her birth.

Calanthe had been terrified, knowing that the dragons had found her again—and not knowing how they may try to reclaim Pavetta or the child she carried. So after Eist’s curse had been broken, the group had truly focused on where they might go, to disappear again.

This time, they had chosen Thanedd Island. Tissaia had wanted Pavetta to study at Aretuza and develop her gift further, to make it manageable. Vanielle had continued her lessons as well and eventually joined the staff at Aretuza—and two years ago, she had joined her hands with Mousesack’s and became deeper entwined in the strange little family they’d created.

Surprisingly, Calanthe had approved, even if she still didn’t always mesh well with the Bruggian. Mousesack had given up so much to stay and help shelter her daughter; it felt good, knowing in some way that she’d repaid some of that debt by bringing Vanielle into his life.

Eist smiled softly at the thought—currently, Pavetta was busy focusing on her studies at the rectory, but over the past few months she’d come to talk quite often and at great length about a sorceress who’d come back to Aretuza to teach, Triss Merigold. Calanthe and Eist had already placed their bets as to how long it would be before Miss Merigold came home to meet everyone.

And so their family both rooted deeper and branched farther out, here at the northernmost point of the island, almost completely sequestered from the rest of the world.

Ciri reached out, gently stroking over the top of Calanthe’s head—Cal turned a bit more into the touch as Ciri’s little hand came down around the curve of her face, closing her eyes softly as she held Ciri’s wrist and kissed her palm.

Eist’s heart nearly burst out of his chest. Yes, his fiery and ferocious woman with her surprising gentleness had become even softer still after the birth of their granddaughter, and he’d gotten to see sides of her that he’d never seen before, over the past six years. Just another way that Cirilla had changed their world, merely by existing.

He had wholeheartedly believed his wife, when she'd quietly said that the dragons would keep looking for them, searching for this child with the power to end worlds. And he also wholeheartedly believed her when she vowed that she would never let it happen, no matter what. It was a vow he had made, too—and one he would die defending, if need be.

But for now, there was so much life, and so much time to live it.

“Imp,” Mousesack chastised as he approached. “You were supposed to wait for us.”

“And you were supposed to walk faster,” Ciri informed him.

“I was rather weighed down by your breakfast.” He hefted up the basket in response. “Which I carried for you, like some pack mule—with nary a word of thanks, mind you.”

Ciri wriggled out of her grandfather’s arms, planting her feet firmly on the sand before bending into an obsequious bow. “O great Music, I thank you so kindly for your aid—”

“She gets this from you, you know.” Mousesack looked keenly at Calanthe, who made no effort to hide her mirth at her granddaughter’s snark.

“She does,” Calanthe agreed warmly, smiling down at her granddaughter, who was beaming proudly back at her. Eist loved them both, such terrible little creatures of chaos and unrepentant rabble-rousers.

He scooped the smallest one into his arms again, maneuvering her so that he could wrap his arm around the shoulders of the larger one. He planted a quick kiss on his wife’s temple before decreeing, “Right. Wasn’t there something about a picnic on the agenda?”

Cirilla cheered at the reminder, and the adults began shifting around, finding a good spot to settle and unpack.

After breakfast, everyone lingered, enjoying what little warmth the winter sun gave. Ciri tugged on Calanthe’s hand, silently guiding her along for a walk on the beach. Calanthe offered a small smile over her shoulder at Eist, who merely watched the two largest pieces of his heart walk away, knowing full well they’d be back soon with tales of adventure.

Sometimes Ciri did this, Calanthe noted. Sought her out specifically, to simply be alone. Perhaps it was selfish of her, but Calanthe adored those moments. Her granddaughter was just as much dragon as she was, and there was a certain sort of kinship that existed only between them, she thought. A measure of feeling seen in ways that others could not understand.

“Gramma,” Ciri finally spoke, once they were far enough to be out of sight of the group. “I have something to show you.”

“Oh?”

Calanthe felt her granddaughter’s tiny, overly-warm hand (so much like hers) tighten in her grasp, just a little. But those adorable sea-colored eyes wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t meet her gaze.

So she’d done something mischievous, Calanthe thought warmly. Played too raucously and broken one of Pavetta’s combs, or something like that.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Certainly not the last.

“Promise you won’t get angry?” Ciri asked, still looking down at the sand as they trudged along.

“Promise.” Calanthe could see Ciri's little tummy expanding as she took a deep breath, steeling herself.

Now Ciri stopped walking. She looked up at her grandmother with such wary hopefulness that Calanthe’s heart clenched.

“Don’t get scared,” Ciri warned.

“I won’t.” Calanthe managed to tamp down her grin. _Oh child, if you’d seen the things I’ve seen…._

Ciri gave a small, curt nod.

Then she took a deep breath and screamed, loud enough to tear the world in two.

The stones in the sand around them rose, just a few inches, wobbling in the air before clunking back to the ground as Ciri stopped screaming.

Calanthe’s entire body rippled, the monster inside her recognizing and reacting to a creature of far more power. There was fear, yes, certainly—not fear of her granddaughter, but fear _for_ her.

And those eyes—so much like her mother’s!—stared up at her, little face twisted in worry. Calanthe wanted to weep. Her throat tightened and her mind swam, trying to find the right words.

Of course, this had been predicted. And yes, she had already shown signs, with her mind’s abilities. But so soon, when she was still so young?

With a sudden pang of realization, Calanthe remembered that she was exactly this age, when the dragon came to her and showed her the horrors she would work in his name.

Ciri’s eyes stayed locked onto her, so desperate and afraid, so impossibly large for her tiny, innocent face. Quietly, she asked, “Am I…bad?”

“No,” Calanthe answered without thought or hesitation, and she felt it, in every ounce of her bones. She hit her knees and pulled her granddaughter into her arms, whispering fiercely into her ear, “My darling, darling, child—how could you ever be bad?”

She felt the tension melt from Ciri’s tiny body as she snuggled closer into her grandmother’s embrace. Calanthe's eyes stung with tears.

It was, perhaps, the first time that she truly understood just how traumatic her sire’s cruelty had been, showing her a path of destruction at this very same age—the very same age that her own nursemaid had merely shook her head when Calanthe told her of the vision, decreeing that her wickedness was set in stone, the very same age that she understood that she was utterly alone in the world, in all the ways that truly mattered.

She’d long learned forgiveness for her past self, through Eist. But now she understood that within her granddaughter, she truly had a chance to change the world—for the better.

“You are not bad,” she repeated again, squeezing her eyes tightly as the tears slowly slid down her cheeks. Her lungs rattled against her ribcage as she found the words that would have changed her own life, if someone had been kind enough to give them to her, all those years ago. “You are such a good girl—a wondrous, funny, adorable girl whom I love with all my heart. Nothing in the world—and nothing within you—could ever change that, my love. Do you understand me?”

Ciri nodded, her chin digging into Calanthe’s shoulder.

“Good,” Calanthe sniffed, sitting back on her heels to properly look at her granddaughter, whose eyes were rimmed with red, too. “Should we show Tissaia tonight at supper, or would you like to wait a bit?”

Ciri considered the idea. “Could we wait? I think I want it to be just between us for now.”

“Alright,” Calanthe agreed. Again she felt a flutter of pride: she had been Cirilla’s first choice, her safe haven, and after a lifetime of being a harbinger, it was nice being a harbor.

She placed her hands on Ciri’s shoulders, lightly bringing her closer so that their noses could touch again.

“Now, shall we carry on? Granfer will be upset if we don’t bring him back a souvenir of some sort.”

Ciri nodded in agreement, and they continued walking down the beach. Within a few minutes, Ciri was chattering away again, occasionally running ahead to look for a bit of sea glass to bring back for Granfer. But she stayed a bit closer than usual, Calanthe noted. Held her grandmother’s hand a bit more often, and maybe a little bit more tightly. Calanthe’s heart ached with love for this tiny little wonder—she held on a little more tightly, too, letting her thumb stroke over Ciri’s knuckles in a soft, comforting cadence.

Eventually they turned around and headed back.

“You can tell Granfer,” Ciri decided suddenly. “I know you tell him everything, anyways.”

Calanthe felt a small flutter of surprise. “Well, I won’t say anything unless you truly want me to.”

“I do.” She gave another curt nod, suddenly seeming beyond her mere six years. “You and Granfer are best friends, aren’t you? And best friends shouldn’t keep secrets from each other.”

Calanthe merely hummed, her throat far too tight to speak. Oh, how she loved the little precocious thing currently holding her hand.

Vanielle and Mousesack had retreated back to the house, leaving Eist stretched out in the sand, eyes closed and face happily turned to the sun. Calanthe felt a familiar wave of affection and pushed it farther out, specifically towards him. He sat up, looking towards them with that beaming smile that always left her a little breathless. The same smile he’d given her this morning, as they’d tumbled across sleepy-warm sheets, soft and playful and quietly joyful.

All of this had been foretold, Calanthe thought warmly, not for the first time. Her love had been written in his palm, sealed upon his stars before the hour of his birth. She was his unconditional love, his love of a thousand suns, and yes, she took inordinate pride in that—and made every effort to make sure it stayed that way, too.

It was a task made easier by the fact that Eist endeavored to be just as unconditional, just as deeply devoted in his love, too. And his scruffy face and adorable lop-sided little grin didn’t hurt either, she supposed.

They came back to the picnic blanket, where Cirilla sat opposite Calanthe and Eist, looking at them very seriously. Eist noticed her expression and cast a glance at his wife, lightly raising his eyebrows ( _what’s the imp done now, then?_ ).

Calanthe simply smiled softly, reaching over to lay her hand atop his.

Ciri asked Granfer not to be scared, and then showed him the same trick she’d shown Gramma. Granfer’s eyes went wide, then he looked back to Gramma. They did the thing they always did—talking with their eyes, in a way that Cirilla couldn’t quite understand.

“It’s our secret, for now,” Gramma said quietly, her eyes going bigger—she was still saying something more, with just her eyes again. Granfer merely nodded, and then turned back to Ciri with a soft smile.

“You’re going to be just like your mother,” he decreed softly. The way he said it, the way he smiled—it made Ciri’s chest feel tight, in the warm and happy way that always felt safe and good. Then Granfer reached for her, easily pulling her into his lap and wrapping his arms around her. “But definitely no yelling in the house from here on out—you’ll break all the dishes and you know how Vanielle loves that blue milk pitcher that Music bought her.”

Ciri nodded seriously.

Gramma smiled softly, reaching out to cup Ciri’s face in her hand. Then she rested it back against her stomach as she simply watched Ciri and Granfer with her usual syrupy-warm look of happiness.

“Gramma.” Ciri sat up, suddenly piqued with curiosity. “How long will it take for the baby to get here?”

“Baby?” Calanthe blinked, her body rippling with confusion at the sudden change of topic (not that it was a huge surprise—the child’s mind ran a mile a minute, and her mouth ran almost that quickly, too).

“The baby you’re having with Granfer,” Ciri nodded, motioning towards Calanthe’s hand, still on her stomach.

Gramma’s expression flickered with an emotion that Ciri couldn’t quite understand. “Oh, my darling, no—Granfer and I can’t have a baby.”

Granfer merely squeezed Ciri a bit tighter. She could feel his little wave of sadness, with something else that, again, she couldn’t quite understand.

“But you can—you have a baby, already.” Ciri sat up straighter. “Granfer gave you one.”

Calanthe ducked her head, tamping down a wry smile. Recently, Cirilla had become fixated on the idea of babies and had begun asking questions—Pavetta had…not truly explained everything, and Ciri’s understanding of it was still a bit…skewed.

Eist bit back a grin too—it took every ounce of self-control not to make a quip about how he’d certainly been giving her enough to make a baby, if that had actually been a possibility. And how he certainly enjoyed trying, against all odds (or at least…the _act_ of trying, as it were).

Still, Calanthe read his thoughts easily enough, because she merely arched a brow in silent warning, shaking her head softly at his predictably lecherous sense of humor. Then her expression softened as she returned her attention to their granddaughter. “No, my love. It…it isn’t possible for Granfer to give me a baby. We’re…too old for such things.”

Eist made a small noise of disagreement, quickly silenced by a cutting look from his wife.

“It’s not impossible.” Ciri shook her head, her eyes wide with sincerity. “And you do have a baby in your tummy. I know it.”

There was something about her tone. Something about her certainty that made Calanthe pause.

“How?” She asked quietly. “How do you know, Cirilla?”

“I wished for it,” Ciri said simply. “On the full moon, with a candle and the stones, just like Tissaia showed me.”

Calanthe closed her eyes against the deep blush searing up her face. She remembered the night of the last full moon quite well. It had been fairly…rigorous, the time they’d taken to celebrate. For nearly seven years now, every full moon was a reminder of what they’d overcome, what their love had done, and they relished it, even after all this time. They’d waited until nightfall and hiked up to the cliffs overlooking the sea. She was fairly certain that they hadn’t slept more than a few minutes at a time, all the way until dawn.

Eist’s mind must have been on a similar track—his hand reached out lightly for hers, fingertips trilling against her skin.

Two weeks. It had been two weeks since the moon. She jolted with a sudden realization—the tenderness in her breasts, which she’d assumed was a sign of her incoming courses, the odd sense of nauseousness she’d felt every afternoon for the last few days, the exhaustion and the constant thirst….

She looked over at Eist, filled with a sudden surety.

Eist saw the look in those big brown eyes and his heart stopped entirely. He watched her swallow hard before she quietly admitted, “There are…possible signs.”

His heart began to race wildly. For years now, he’d known about Calanthe’s chosen curse, and gods above, they’d done enough to thoroughly prove its strength—but he’d seen Pavetta’s power, and now Ciri’s. Calanthe herself was a harbinger, a curse-breaker…what wonders could her granddaughter work, if she so chose?

A child. Their child, together. He felt a swell of joy, even as he felt a measure of uncertainty. He could tell by Calanthe’s expression that she felt the same, on both counts.

He thought back to the night of the full moon. Exactly how they’d coupled, exactly how they’d reveled and made even more love between them—this time, apparently, they’d made more than just love.

A child. They’d made a child. His mind cast back to the image of Calanthe beneath him, dark eyes shining in the pale, bright moonlight, reaching up to stroke his face and make soft, adoring noises as he’d come inside her. _Then_. Somehow, his heart knew that exactly then, they’d begun to create their child.

Now Calanthe was smiling, still a bit frightened but in the same softly beaming way that she’d smiled, the first time she’d held Cirilla.

“No need to cry, Gramma.” Ciri saw the tears glimmering in Calanthe’s eyes and move closer again. “It’s a good thing.”

“Of course it is, my darling,” Calanthe sniffed, blinking quickly and turning her attention back to her granddaughter. “A very good thing. I love your scruffy old Granfer very much, and I’m very happy that we’re having a baby.”

Eist’s heart absolutely soared. Good. She wanted this, despite all her hesitancy, despite the fears of her past, despite the sheer impossibility of it all.

Calanthe reached up, lightly rearranging Cirilla’s wisping hair. “Perhaps, though, you should have asked me. You cannot will someone to have a child just because, my dear. It isn’t…it isn’t fair, or nice.”

Ciri’s face scrunched in confusion. “But I had to, Gramma.”

“You had to?” Eist echoed, face filling with confusion.

Ciri nodded deftly. “I had a dream. But…a real dream, like the kind you know will actually happen. There was a dragon, and a battle. I had a sister beside me, who helped me win—but Momma won’t ever have a baby again, so it had to be you.”

“What do you mean?” Calanthe’s head swam.

“Momma is going to marry Miss Merigold one day,” Cirilla announced, with absolute certainty. “But they won’t have any more babies. So it had to be you and Granfer. She’s going to grow up and help me fight the dragon. We’re going to lock up the monsters forever.”

“Oh.” Eist felt the way Calanthe’s entire body went stock still.

The mother of the gate. She was still fulfilling her destiny, despite decades of running from it.

He reached behind her, gently rubbing the small of her back. She turned into him slightly, and he felt a wave of affection—it never ceased to amaze and delight him, the small ways she still sought him out, the ways she silently declared her trust, her certainty that he would always keep her safe, just as he promised.

“Don’t be scared.” Cirilla smiled sweetly, so adorably earnest, as always. “We’re going to win. I’ve seen it, Gramma. I _know_ it.”

Calanthe merely pulled her granddaughter into her arms, holding her tightly as Cirilla curled into her lap. She kissed the top of Cirilla’s head fiercely. “Of course, my love. Of course.”

Eist wrapped his arm fully around his wife, leaning in to kiss her temple. She closed her eyes, taking a long, deep breath.

“Are you mad?” Cirilla asked, after a pause.

“No,” Calanthe assured her. “No, not at all.”

And it was true. Cirilla had meant no harm, breaking her curse and allowing Eist to put a child in her. And after so many years and so many attempts to thwart Fate and Destiny, she’d come to understand that some things would always find a way, no matter what. This, at least, was a path she could live with.

And…truth be told, there had been moments. Watching Eist with Ciri, and softly thinking what a wonderful father he would have been, if given the chance. Wondering what life would look like, if there had been a child between them.

She’d know soon enough, she realized. She kissed Ciri’s head again and decreed, “You should look for more shells, dear heart. Granfer and I have to talk about this.”

Ciri merely nodded, wriggling out of her grasp and back onto her own two feet. She gave her grandparents each a quick kiss before darting across the sand, back towards the waves.

A heavy beat passed.

“Is it…true?” Eist asked quietly. Calanthe’s expression and her decree of signs had been enough, but still, he needed to hear it outright.

“I think so,” she admitted, looking down at her stomach. “My courses are due in a few days—we’ll know easily enough, by then.”

He merely nodded, shifting closer and placing a light kiss on her shoulder. She turned towards him, leaning in just enough to nuzzle her nose against his.

“How do you feel about it?” He kept his tone gentle, neutral, unassuming.

“Happy,” she decided. “I have…wanted, sometimes—but I knew it was impossible…or at least I thought it was. Then I thought we were too old for such things—”

“Speak for yourself, woman.”

She chuckled softly at that.

He leaned in, placing another kiss on the corner of her mouth, on his favorite little line that had only deepened over the years. “My memory of that night is still quite clear, and I assure you, your age was the farthest thing from my mind—and after seven years, I can truly say you’ve never lacked energy or ability in that regard.”

She hummed warmly, reaching up to hold his cheek as she pulled him into a proper kiss. “I have noticed a bit of gray in your beard, though—”

“Cruel thing,” he chided, which only made her grin deepen. “I offer assurances only to be met with criticisms.”

“Oh, it wasn’t a critique, I assure you.” She stole another quick kiss. “It’s quite becoming. It will lend you the fatherly gravitas needed for the task ahead.”

“The task ahead,” he echoed, feeling another swell of delight and uncertainty.

“We shall be raising the gate,” she pointed out softly. “A child beyond anything we can imagine at this moment. One can only hope we’re suited to the task.”

“Of course we are,” he returned, with utter certainty. “We have broken curses, slain monsters—who could possibly be more qualified for such an endeavor?”

She hummed at that. Then snuggled closer, resting her head on his shoulder. A long, thoughtful silence ensued. Eist waited, knowing that Calanthe needed time to voice her thoughts.

“We should…still try to help,” she admitted quietly.

“In what way?”

“We should look for the dragon again. To…take out his followers, at least. The less enemies Cirilla and our daughter will have to face, the better.”

Now it was Eist’s turn to hum in agreement. Still, he had to point out, “I don’t think I could ever hunt with you again, Calanthe—especially not now, not when—”

“I’m carrying your half-monstrous whelp?” She supplied helpfully.

He rolled his eyes—even as he realized their child would have an interesting mix of abilities, given their own.

She must have been on a similar line of thought, because she wrapped her arm around him and quietly spoke, “A selkie and a dragon. Whatever shall our little one be?”

“Loved.” He returned, with utter certainty. “She will be whatever she chooses, and she will be loved. Beyond all measure.”

He kissed his wife’s forehead, relishing the small, happy sound she made in response.

“Aye,” she agreed softly. “She will be loved. As deeply as her mother loves her father.”

Eist’s throat tightened. This woman. She would never cease to overwhelm him, in the best of ways.

She spoke again. “Not…right now, not for a few years, even. But we should prepare. We should…help Cirilla prepare for the fight ahead. And we have help. We have Tissaia and the might of Aretuza, we have Mousesack and the sphinx—”

“Vanielle,” he corrected, feeling a familiar wave of fond frustration for his wife’s predictable ways.

“And we have Pavetta, too,” Calanthe continued. “We have _might_ , Eist. Our love was destined to change the world, was it not?”

His heart caught at the seriousness of her expression, the way she looked at him in both hope and fear—and yes, absolute certainty. She believed their love changed the world, already.

And he believed it, too.

“Aye,” he said simply, leaning in to kiss her forehead again. She leaned in as well, pressing further into the kiss. They held, both closing their eyes and listening to the waves pull and push.

“I am happy,” she whispered, after a long pause. He hummed, his lips still pressed against her forehead. She reached up, fingertips trilling along his jawline.

Eist opened his eyes—over the top of his wife’s head, he saw his granddaughter, dancing along the water’s edge and kicking the surf back into the sea. Ever her grandmother’s child, that one—taking on the mightiest forces of nature without a moment’s hesitation or a hint of fear.

He grinned. Their daughter would be an absolute terror. He couldn’t wait to witness it, to watch Calanthe get exasperated by meeting the parts of her own personality coming back at her.

“What an adventure,” he admitted softly, pulling back just enough to smile down at her. Her lips slowly slipped into a grin as well.

“What an adventure,” she echoed.

Eist glanced back to Ciri, who was watching them curiously. “Your granddaughter is waiting for us, I think.”

Calanthe hummed at that. She turned to look at Cirilla, too. She waved, and Ciri waved back, calling for them to come look at some treasure she’d found (most likely a jellyfish, given prior experiences). Calanthe smiled back at her husband and rose to her feet.

Eist was on his feet in a flash, hands out in a protective gesture, as if desperate to help and shield her.

Calanthe stopped, giving him a long, full look.

“Eist Tuirseach. Despite what your raging ego might tell you, carrying your child is not miraculous enough to turn me into an invalid.”

He blinked at that, then huffed in amusement. Yes, she was still entirely herself, as always.

He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. She merely smirked and turned towards the sea.

Still, as she walked away, she reached out her hand, in an achingly familiar gesture.

He gladly took it, letting her lead the way yet again into their newest—and perhaps greatest—adventure.

* * *

_~Le Fin._


End file.
